The A Team: Honor In The Jacket
by ForsakingSilence
Summary: During a mission, Amy asks Murdock about his A-2 jacket. It's hard, but Murdock decides to share a story he's never told before. Now, still carrying the past, he must seperate memories from reality long enough to rescue Face when Hannibal's plan fails.
1. Observations

**Disclaimer: I don't own the A-Team. I'm just playing in their sandbox as any fan would!**

**A/N:This is my idea of something Murdock might have done during his tours in Vietnam, before the A-Team. I have tried to keep it as close to his canon timeline as possible, and I have tried, through much study (and documentary watching), to keep places and things as historically accurate as possible. Then again, this is fanfiction so if it's not perfect we'll just go with it! **

**Further Info: Some events based around an OC. General violence, some war related. May contain Amy/Murdock and may contain a little Dark!Murdock. **

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><p><strong>Observations<strong>

Amy tapped her pencil absentmindedly against the top of her notepad, staring thoughtfully out the passenger side window of B.A.'s parked van. They were sitting in the heart of LA's abandoned warehouse district, and her view consisted of nothing more than an alley wall on both sides. The red stacks of brick, with its crumbling mortar, had been her only scenery for the last half hour. By now she had read every single piece of graffiti-garbage written there. Some of it she wished she hadn't.

Beside her, Murdock sat quietly behind the wheel, watching the stretch of road visible at the end of the alley in front of them. He played idly with the antenna on the radio he held, pulling it up and pushing it down for no reason. It was a rare occasion when he was quiet, and Amy found she actually enjoyed simply sitting in his company with no conversation. It gave her a chance to appreciate him in a different light.

He was worried about the rest of the team, she could tell –although he hadn't exactly made an effort to hide that fact from her. She knew he hated being benched, but like her, he understood that someone had to stay outside in case the mission went south. Amy could tell by the look on his face that he had been running every negative scenario since they'd parked. Fortunately, his distraction had given her the opportunity to study him unnoticed, and as a reporter, she found moments like these invaluable.

Amy glanced down at her notepad. Unbeknownst to Murdock, she had been taking notes on him to pass the time. For starters, she had tried describing him physically. After all, she did find him attractive, but for some reason every adjective she had thought to use seemed inadequate. Murdock was handsome in his own right. He certainly was not stunning like Face, but he did have a quality about him that would make any girl sit up and look a little longer. His smile—his real smile—was always enough to get her heart going even on a bad day. Still, she doubted she'd ever find the right words to describe him accurately. Murdock was more of a person who needed to be experienced rather than explained.

The latter was true about his personality as well. On her second set of notes, Amy had endeavored to make a character sketch of the man, but had soon given up on that too. Murdock was an enigma with a soul depth rivaling that of the Mariana Trench, and an endless troop of personalities up his sleeve to boot. It was near impossible to nail him in twenty-five words or less. Sometimes, Amy wished he would hand out programs so she wouldn't get lost in his role switching theatrics. But, despite his zaniness, she loved his energy. And despite his crazy antics, Murdock could at times display a certain level of sensitivity that had been lacking in most of the other men she had ever known.

Putting her feet up on the dash, Amy settled in for a longer sit. Her actions caused Murdock to glance over at her, but she was too busy tugging down the fabric of her skort to acknowledge him. However, Amy still managed to catch a glimpse of Murdock's gaze drifting low to her bare legs. She hadn't meant to, but her obvious pull on her scrunched-up hem had drawn his attention straight to her exposed thigh.

After a brief stare, he seemed to realize what he was doing and quickly looked away. Amy hid a smile at this, listening to him shift his position to lean more towards his door. That was another thing she loved about Murdock, his decorum. Even though she knew deep down he possessed as wicked a streak as Face, he, unlike the conman, knew when to flaunt it and when not to. That was part of what made him so attractive –the knowledge he had the potentiality to be wicked but wouldn't.

"Bored yet chica?" Murdock asked suddenly, flashing a quick smile in her direction. He had lost interest in pestering the walkie-talkie, and had turned his mind to breaking the silence between them.

"No. Why? Are you?" Amy asked, noticing the pet name, and returning his smile with an equally as bright one. She knew he was trying to be optimistic for her benefit because, despite his grin, his left hand was busy tapping the wheel in agitation giving him away. He seemed to be subconsciously drumming his fingers, using the motion as an outlet for his wired nerves.

Murdock pulled a face. "Are you kidding me, with this brain?" He joked good-naturedly, wiggling his hat by the brim. "Boredom stopped being part of my vocabulary years ago." He added, his gaze flickering back to the street.

Amy's brow furrowed lightly at his choice of words. Something about the way he said 'years ago' made her think. So much about this man was a mystery, and the more observations she made, the more unanswered questions she had. She had read through his service record when the whole business with Al Massey had started. She knew about his stint with the CIA, his double tour in Vietnam, his commendations, and his impervious flight citations, but still –it was barely scratching the surface. She also knew he had been declared insane only _after_ the war had ended –which begged the biggest question of all: what had happened to him?

For a while now Amy had come to the conclusion that Murdock was, in fact, the sanest member of the team. But she knew, while his off-kilter behavior made him the class-clown, it was also a front for something much deeper. She doubted there was anyone in the world who had gone through a war, and not been changed by it somehow. After all, boys were supposed to become men, but whatever had changed Murdock had also left him with a defense mechanism. He wasn't hiding from reality; he was hiding from the past.

Early on, Amy had come to learn that discussing Vietnam with the men was strictly taboo. Except for the odd humorous anecdote now and again, or the inside reference to a workable strategy, which usually began with 'hey guys remember that time we did this'; none of them ever spoke candidly about their time in the war. She could respect that, but as a writer it made it hard to understand her characters without a back story.

Even now, sitting beside Murdock, Amy's mind was swimming with a thousand and one questions she wished to ask him. Biting her lip in thought, she tried to gauge just how much of a line she'd be crossing if she did broach the subject. If anything, it would pass the time while they waited for the team.

_Would he open up more since we're alone?_ Amy wondered. Her curiosity overruled her judgment, and taking a deep breath, she decided to wing it. Settling on one question in particular that had been nagging at her since they'd met, she reached over and patted his arm to get his attention.

"Murdock, can I ask you something?"

Murdock looked over at her and shrugged nonchalantly, "Yeah, sure," he responded, noting her thoughtful expression with interest. "You can ask me anything anytime, you know that. Just don't be too surprised by my answers." His tone darkened as he finished, adding to the ambiguity of what sort of answers he might actually give.

Amy smiled. Out of all the members of the team, he had always been the most honest with her. Encouraged, she flipped her notepad closed and slipped her pencil into the ring binding. If she was going to ask him something personal, she was going to make sure he knew it would stay between them.

Murdock's brow lifted. Intrigued, he watched her toss the pad up on the dash and out of reach. "Uh-oh, it's one of _those_ kinda questions." He said. "Should I be worried, here?"

Lowering her espadrilles to the van floor, Amy sat up straighter and turned to face him. "Look," she held up a hand in emphasize, "I swear, once I ask, you have the full freedom to not answer. If you don't want too, I'll completely understand."

"Okay…" Murdock half grinned. He seemed uncertain where the conversation was going. "Ask away." He said, giving her his final permission.

Reaching out again, Amy tugged on his jacket sleeve. "Where did you get your jacket?" She asked.

The question was simple enough, but immediately she regretted it.

Murdock's face fell before she had even finished. All warmth faded from his brown eyes, instantaneously replaced by a shadowy cloud. Amy had never seen him so serious before. In all the months they'd been traveling together, not once had she seen such a look on his face. It was the darkest, saddest, look she had ever seen on the pilot. For a moment, Amy actually felt frightened of what she might have accidentally triggered inside him.

"Murdock?" She tentatively touched his hand, hoping he was alright. "Murdock, I'm sorry—"

"Naw, don't be Chiquita." He interrupted her, snapping out of his daze. Offering up a wan smile as reassurance he tried to cover over his initial reaction, realizing he was scaring her. "Why, why do you ask?" He adjusted his position to give her his full attention.

Amy shook her head, not wanting to press further, "Forget about it, it was silly—"

"No, no it wasn't. I said you could ask me anything, didn't I?"

"Yes," She admitted, but it didn't make her feel any better. Unfortunately she could tell Murdock wasn't going to let her drop the issue. "Well, I noticed it said _Da Nang_ on the back," she started, trying to be more delicate. "And I don't remember having read in your file that you were stationed there, so I was just curious."

Murdock nodded kindly, acting as if it was the most sensible question in the world. "True, I wasn't stationed there, officially, but you forget –Nang was home to one of the busiest air bases in Nam at the time, so in my line of duty it was almost impossible not to end up there at some point." He smiled again, trying to show she hadn't upset him.

"I get the feeling that's not where you got the jacket though, right?" Amy said, not wishing to pry but wanting to know.

"Yeah, you're right." Murdock replied, fidgeting with the volume control on the walkie-talkie. He paused as if considering something, and then glanced back up at her. "Would you really like to know?" He asked slowly. "I mean, really, really?"

Amy was taken aback by the expression on his face. She was beginning to get the feeling he wanted to tell her.

"Yes, I would." She said softly, giving him a warm smile for support.

"Okay," Murdock agreed. Leaning back against the door behind him, he thought about where to begin.

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><p><strong>TBC, thanks for reading!<strong>


	2. Daryl 'Pots' White

**Daryl "Pots" White**

He had known from the moment she had started watching him—with sly glances and subtle scribbles in her notepad—that a question was coming. However, he hadn't quite expected the one she had finally asked.

Murdock fiddled with the knob on the radio volume control, trying to decide how he felt on the matter. Asking someone where they got their clothing was a perfectly normal question. Actually, it was so normal; he was surprised she had even asked it! With everything the words 'psychiatric patient', or 'war vet', could have conjured in the curiosity department, 'where did you get your jacket' was certainly the least invasive question he had ever heard. He had even asked it once.

In truth, even though he had worn the old A-2 jacket every day, for the past thirteen years of his life, so much so that it had become a part of him, he rarely, if ever, thought about its origins. He had never divulged the jacket's history to anyone before, not even to his many psychiatrists. Hannibal on the other hand had made it easy for them all, by instating a policy amongst the team: if it was your own past it stayed that way. They all understood some things experienced in war were best left buried, so they never discussed it.

Face had asked him only once, back when they'd first met, but at the time he had been unable to talk about it. It had never occurred to Murdock that perhaps now, so many years later; he might actually be able too. The longer he thought on it, the more he realized –who better to tell then dear, little, Amy Allen? They were, after all, Sky King and Penny 'till the end.

Glancing up, Murdock took a moment to study her worried face. He knew he had shaken her confidence with his earlier reaction. He hadn't meant to, but the moment she had spoken a floodgate had opened wide inside his head, releasing a tidal wave of memories he hadn't been ready for. Now, he felt he needed to make it up to her for that. It hadn't been her fault.

"Would you really like to know?" He asked her at last, searching her eyes in an effort to convey he was willing to share. "I mean, really, really?" Even as he said it, Murdock knew what the answer would be. Amy wouldn't be able to pass up the chance to hear a story; it was the reporter in her blood.

"Yes, I would," She replied without hesitation offering him a smile.

Murdock nodded, "Okay." He said simply. Leaning back against the door behind him, he tried to think of where to begin. "I was a month into the six month extension of my first tour. It was January 1971, just after the New Year actually. Man, it was crazy then, and when I say crazy, I mean _crazy_. It was even crazier than what we do now on a daily basis –if you can believe that."

"I'll have to take you word for it." Amy said.

"Trust me," Murdock assured her. "Nam was a whole other ball-o-wax. Back then I was flying just about anything with rotors or wings, but mostly though it was the UH-1s –the Hueys. And let me tell you, the stuff we pulled off over those jungles with them choppers –well it was a lot different than flying the Thunderbirds out of Nellis as an underage looie, that's for sure. But I never missed that. The experience I got with some thirty-six months of combat air time, would have taken me years to learn in the States."

"Well, you were already good enough for the CIA to want you in '67." Amy offered.

Murdock sighed. "No, I was an easy target darlin', that's what I was. I figured heck, one run and then a stateside rotation –that's what they promised by the way. But once you got a look at what was going on over there, you couldn't go back to normal livin' after that. I couldn't leave those guys in Nam, so I re-volunteered for active duty and returned in '69.

"Anyway, back to January '71. All of what I'm about to tell you happened about two months prior to my assignment with the A-Team, under Hannibal. After that I would be running covert missions with the team for HQ and Morrison, but _before_ that I sometimes flew as a medevac pilot—"

"Really?" Amy said in surprise, interrupting him. "For some reason, I never imagined that. Your file was lacking in specifics, all it said was that you flew with 1st Aviation Brigade."

Murdock settled his hat back on his head. "Yeah, I did, but the Brigade was divided into battalions too, and we pilots were sometimes moved between them where needed. The terrain was murder over there; almost everything was best accessed by chopper, so we were in great demand. I even flew a troop transporter for a short time, doing drop-offs and extractions near Hanoi," He stopped when a new spark of interest entered Amy's eyes.

"No," He cut her off at the pass, "that's a whole other episode of _Pilot Murdock_. Sorry, but the story you want to hear happened when I was flying medevac."

Smiling sweetly, Amy mouthed a playful '_later_' before letting him continue.

Thankful she had acquiesced so easily, he did, "The first unit I was in, worked closely with the 29th Evac in Binh Thuy, a couple hours northwest of Saigon. We were an aviation support unit, so we weren't strictly medevac, but if we were closest to a Dustoff call—that's what they called the air ambulances, Dustoff—we answered. When we went out for a lift it was two pilots to a Huey, which was mandatory because of the high percentage of medevac casualties at the time –thanks to the guerilla tactics of the VC. That way if one of us got hit, the other could take over." Murdock paused in his monologue to check the road, so far nothing. He hoped Hannibal's plan hadn't fouled up again.

Amy was sitting sideways, one leg crossed over the other. Her elbow on her knee, she supported her chin with a hand as she listened intently. Murdock appreciated his captive audience. Not only was she pretty, but she paid attention well when he talked –unlike the nurses at the VA who had the rude habit of ignoring him.

Folding his arms over his chest, Murdock began talking on a more personal level. He was beginning to feel the nostalgia set in. "I was the co-pilot of sorts for this guy named Daryl White. He was from Boston, and boy, he sounded like it too. None of us ever called him Daryl though; we all called him Pots because he liked to gamble, and he almost always won. Had more than one CO on his tail about it too, but he just kept on playing any poker table he could find out there in the boonies. He was a great wingman, but a real superstitious nut. He had this A-2 jacket he wore everywhere, never took the thing off. If he could have showered in the damn thing he would have –said as long as he wore it, "Charlie" couldn't get him…"

'_God invented runways so retards could land, eh H.M.?'_

_Murdock rolled his eyes as Daryl's unmistakable voice crackled through his headset._

"_Hey, Pots, I thought I told you to keep off the radio and let me do my thing?" He chastised lightly, leaning forward to catch a glimpse through the mud-flecked windscreen of the man waiting on the ground. Guiding the UH-1 over the scrubbed dirt patch intended as a landing pad, Murdock adjusted the cyclic between his knees bringing the nose a little more to the left and on target. "If he invented runways for retards, then who did he invent these dirt corners we get to hop around on for?"_

'_He didn't invent those, the Army did. You're lookin' good man, come on down.' _

"_Will do," Murdock responded, moving his finger off the transmission button and tapping the pedals to stay straight. Concentrating on reducing his RPM he gained thrust, descending toward the earth with the collective on hand to cushion the landing. _

_The rotors spun, kicking up the surrounding dust. Even though it was winter, it was still the dry season in Vietnam, which meant that, aside from varying temperature drops at night, it hardly felt like January in the States. Murdock could see Daryl standing on the edge of the pad, one arm up to shield his face from the assault of dirt and rocks blown his way, all the while giving him the proverbial 'thumbs up'. _

_Once the skids touched ground he killed the throttle, listening to the whine of the engine as it began to spool down. When the blades had ceased spinning, Murdock pulled his helmet off –leaving it on the seat as he climbed out of the cockpit. By the time his boots hit the dirt Daryl was already hurrying to him, slinging the shortwave receiver he'd been communicating with over his shoulder._

"_So how'd she feel?" He asked, indicating the cooling helicopter._

_Murdock pulled his non-regulation blue baseball cap out of his back pocket. "Heavy." He responded to the question, rolling the hat brim between his palms before putting it on. "But then again, they all feel that way don't they?"_

"_And the repairs they made to the tail rotors?" Daryl began walking over to inspect the tail boom._

_Murdock followed, happy to stretch his legs after his flight. The Huey he'd been flying had recently undergone a patch-job following an incident with some AAA, anti-aircraft artillery, during her last mission –courtesy of the enemy of course. He hadn't flown her then, but he had been selected to test out the repairs to the tail rotor all the same. Daryl had stayed on the ground to keep an eye out for anything hinky. The pair of binoculars his friend had used to spot him was still hanging from their strap around his neck. _

"_There was some shudder on take-off, but the landing was smooth enough." Murdock informed him. "I mean, she pulls like the dickens when you try to turn right but it can be compensated for. I, I don't think we'll need to worry much if we have to take her out again."_

"_Well let's hope we won't need to—hey." Daryl stopped talking, and walking, as his inspection took him to the left side of the chopper. "H.M. I'm guessing you forgot to check your ass before you got in the air. Seriously man, how could you miss that?"_

"_Miss what?" Murdock frowned and ducked under the boom. Turning to look where Daryl was pointing, an amused smile began to spread over his face at what he saw. On the dark metal of the cabin, near the tail, someone had painted _'give em' hell mother flyer' _in army surplus white. _

"_Huh, that certainly wasn't there yesterday." He half laughed, "How'd I miss it –how'd you miss it? I thought you were watching my backend?" He asked, reaching out to rub the letters with a thumb. The paint was bone-dry, which wasn't surprising in the constant heat of the South Asian weather. _

"_I wasn't looking__** there**__." Daryl replied as if it were a stupid question. _

_Murdock cocked his head thoughtfully, examining the phrase. The sun was behind them at this angle, casting their shadows haphazardly across the hull. "I kinda like it though." He decided. "It'll work well when we mount the M60's." _

_Daryl nodded in agreement at the idea. "Sure, but I can tell you who won't like it –Colonel Brand." _

"_So what, who cares? When we take off we'll just be sure to wave at him from the left side is all." Murdock grinned, flipping his index finger in a circle, imitating active rotor blades. "I bet it was those motor pool boys again. They can't seem to quit paintin' slogans on every piece of metal in this camp." _

"_Sneaky SOB's," Daryl said almost appreciatively. "But when they get caught, I wouldn't want to be in their army boots –come on." He clapped Murdock on the shoulder. "Buy you a cup o' jo Howlin' Mad?"_

_Murdock ran a hand over the back of his warm neck. He was sweating profusely now; the trickle of perspiration running down his spine was adding a new damp stain to the already dry salt on the back of his green T-shirt. Having been standing in the direct sun for the last few minutes, coffee was the last thing he wanted. _

"_Ugh, coffee in this weather?" He protested. Giving the graffiti one last look, Murdock moved to follow his companion toward a jeep parked at the far reaches of the helipad. They would need it to get down to the basecamp that was their home, along with the rest of the 32nd Aviation Battalion, and the ground unit they were attached to. _

"_Hey, stop complaining will you?" Daryl shot over his shoulder, "It's not hot. It's all in your mind." _

_Murdock shook his head helplessly and jogged a few steps to catch up, his dog tags rattling against his chest. _But of course,_ he wanted to say. _It's not hot to you, because you're crazy enough to wear your blasted jacket!

_Instead, he just gave the tiger motif on the man's back a single-finger salute, before trotting ahead to claim the driver's seat of the J4C for himself. _

X X X

_The net sides of the mess tent rippled, signaling a dry breeze had swept through the makeshift building. Murdock heard the fabric of the American flag—erected in the middle of the compound—snap-to, catching the same waft of air. Leaning forward just enough, his place at the mess table allowed him to watch through the screen wall as the banner unfurled it's glorious red, blue, and white colors against the hazy sky. _

"_That never gets old, ya know?" He said, rolling his glass of powdered orange juice between his hands. _

_Daryl glanced up, confused, from picking a floater out of his cup of coffee. Realizing Murdock was looking past him, over the tabletop, he turned in his seat on the opposite bench and bent to see the flag give one last wave before falling limp to the gnarled pole._

"_Hmm," He nodded, twisting back around and resuming his prior position; cup in hand, elbows on the table. "Reminds you what it's all about, doesn't it?" _

_Murdock smiled faintly and began to sing in response, keeping his voice just loud enough for the two of them to hear, "Silver wings upon my chest; I fly my chopper above the best. I can make more dough that way, but I can't wear no Green Beret..."_

_Mid drink, Daryl let out an involuntary snort into his cup as he started laughing –and then choking, when the coffee he'd been swallowing at the time caught him in the back of the throat. The sound made Murdock's smile widen into a full-blown grin._

"_Careful there Pots." He admonished taking a lazy sip of his lukewarm juice. His tone caused Daryl to laugh even more, increasing his coughing fit. There were several other base personnel scattered about the confines of the tent, but only one or two bothered to look over at the disturbance. Everyone knew who the pilots were, and moments like these were common place between them. They were nothing, if not genius, at finding ways to crack each other up on a daily basis. _

_It was a moment before Daryl could catch his breath, "Damn, I love that." He managed to say, followed by a solid throat clearing._

"_Love what?" Murdock asked innocently, draining his glass and grinding his teeth on the texture._

"_That song, man! I swear it gets me every time –just don't let Brand hear you singing it. He's got a son in the SF." Daryl said pointedly, returning to his coffee more carefully this time. _

_Murdock shrugged his shoulders in silent agreement and let his attention slip to fingering a wood splinter near his left arm. _Everybody has a son somewhere_, he thought dryly. For a moment he wondered what it would have been like to have a father who would be proud of his service in the USARV. As it stood, he'd never known his biological father—the man had cut and run before he'd been born—but Murdock found that bothered him least. After all, he'd survived the first twenty-five years of his life without a one, so why worry about it now? _

_What did nag at him from time to time though, was the idea that he had no family, whatsoever, waiting for him back home. His mother had died when he'd been five years old leaving him, an only child, in the capable, but elderly, hands of his grandparents. Both had raised him to his teens, but had passed away before they could even see him graduate from high school, let alone ROTC. _

_Having no family should have been a blessing –less to worry about, but more and more Murdock was beginning to recognize how important having such a physical tie to the normal world was. War perverted everything, especially this one. The first thing he'd been told when he'd arrived at the 32nd was not to kick over any buckets, meaning: any object outside the camp zone was most likely booby trapped by the enemy. The realization that the frontline was nowhere and everywhere all at once was enough to make anyone paranoid. You could easily get lost inside your head with thoughts like that, and having even a single, solid, link to home kept you from stepping into a moving chopper blade._

_Murdock watched Daryl as the man took to loosening the tops of the saltshakers nearby, before returning them to the middle of the table without batting an eye. For him, Daryl was his solid link. The more he flew and the more he saw, Murdock knew it was standard for pilots to be borderline adrenaline junkies –there was no way any of them could do what they did without it—but having someone there, that you could trust with your life, kept you sane through it all. _

_One year older than himself—but just as tall and gangly—Daryl had a real family back home. The worn picture in his wallet, which Murdock had seen on countless occasions, bore the smiling images of his young wife Claire and their two little girls, Joanie and May (ages three and six respectively). All three were beautiful to behold, but Murdock was certain it was more the idea of what they represented that he found so special. _

_When Daryl had first found out about his new friend's lack of family, he'd immediately offered to share his, and had even succeeded in gaining him several crayon inscribed letters addressed to Uncle H.M. However, from the start, Murdock had been good-naturedly warned that the wife was off-limits._

_In return for the inclusion, his only requirement had been to accept the redirection of any, and all, female attention that might otherwise be thrown Daryl's way. Truth be told, there hadn't been a chance for that much, yet, but Murdock figured they still had months left to go before either of their tours were up, so anything could happen._

Anything could happen._ He dwelt on that a little longer than he'd have liked._

_Suddenly the PA system wired throughout the camp crackled to life. Daryl paused in his mischief making and straightened, waiting to hear what announcement would be read. Across from him, Murdock snapped out of his thoughts to listen as well. _

'…_Captains' White and Murdock, please report to Colonel Brand on the double…'_

"_Aw man, I knew we shoulda checked in first." Daryl groaned. Murdock held up a hand to silence him, realizing the speaker was still broadcasting. As if on cue, the nasally voice of their camp Corporal continued his summons, '…will Connolly and Stevens please report as well.'_

_Daryl dropped his cup, "Crap, they're calling the team. It's an emergency." He said rising hastily to his feet, shoving his bench roughly backward in the process._

_Murdock felt his stomach pitch and his nerves heighten at the thought. He was certain he'd never get used to the pre-mission rush which flooded through him at the mention of a Dustoff. Disentangling his long legs from underneath his own seat, he stood up, and practically jumped the table to follow his friend for a sprint across the compound... _

'MURDOCK, DO YOU COPY?'

* * *

><p><strong>*The lyrics used are from the song, "Green Flight Pay" (parody of "Ballad of the Green Beret") and was written by an unknown pilot in Vietnam who was sick of the Special Forces getting all the credit*<strong>

**TBC, Thanks for reading!**


	3. Boston, 1971

**Boston, 1971**

"Yowza!" Murdock yelped, coming out of his reminiscing with a jolt. Across from him, Amy jumped in her seat at the sound of Hannibal's amped-up voice booming through the walkie-talkie. The intensity caused the speaker to crackle.

Fumbling with the knob, Murdock re-adjusted the volume. "How the heck…?" He muttered under his breath, wondering why it'd been so loud to begin with. Then he remembered having fiddled with the dial earlier.

_Wow, Amy's question must have thrown me for a bigger loop than I thought. _He frowned at the idea.

'_Um_ _Murdock, this is no time for a nap. Do you copy? Over_.' Hannibal was coming in again, and now at the correct amplitude, he sounded as if he were whispering.

Hitting the PTT, Murdock responded, still slightly off-balance. "Uh, yeah, I copy. Sorry 'bout that Colonel. Ten-twenty? Over." Lifting his finger off the button he gave Amy a little smile to hide his anxiety. She returned it quickly, rubbing her knees as if cold, her gaze flickering down to watch the radio in his hand. This was what they had both been waiting for, a sign that the rest of the team was still alive.

After a short delay Hannibal replied, his voice again low,_ 'Well, at the moment, I'm locked in a basement closet full of junk. B.A. had to cannibalize two boom boxes and an old CB unit in order to reach you. The crumb-balls took our radios.' _

Amy blinked, that hadn't been part of the plan. She looked to Murdock, who returned her questioning glance with an equally as mystified one, angling his left eyebrow upward.

"Whoa, hold the phone," He said bringing the microphone closer to his mouth. "Can you back it up there Kemosabe, and tell me how this thing went south? I thought you said it was a straight in and out –one, two, three. You know, easy-peasy lemon squeezy? Over."

Again, silence followed, and then, '_Yeah, I was getting to that. Hold on_.' The frequency band went blank as Hannibal ceased transmitting. Murdock began to chew nervously on his thumbnail in the ensuing quiet. Amy counted away the seconds inside her head. Both sat on edge.

A minute passed, then two, '_Sorry guys_.' Hannibal returned, breaking the silence. _'We had a little visitor, but its all clear now. Sure, I could explain, but I haven't the time to regale you in full—'_

"The highlights are fine with us Colonel," Murdock said.

'_Good, because that's all you're gonna get. Long story short, it looks like our guy Stiles has been getting into bed with a whole other class of royalty. He and his scuzzburgers are running a lot more than just dealin' street crack and popping kids in parks. It seems we opened the bag and let the entire Chinese Triad out, with bells on.'_

Murdock winced, "Don't tell me that." He groaned envisioning red tattoos and black market UZIs up the wazoo. "Why didn't we know about this? Uh, how many goons are we talkin' about? Over."

'_Ha, beats me. And I'm gonna go with a lot, but I only counted about ten guys so far. Oh and somebody finked. Our covers were blown the moment we walked in.'_

"Okay, okay," Murdock set his head back against the window behind him and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to formulate a solution. "Well, do you want me to glide in and set you birdies free or what?" He asked, clicking off the band.

'_Or what Murdock,'_ Hannibal said, picking up in step. _'Don't worry about B.A. and I, we'll pull something together here. No, I need you to go find Face. And I think it better be sooner rather than later.'_

"Face? Why, isn't he with you?"

'_That's a negative. The head screwball dropped in about five minutes ago and dragged him off. I don't know where, but you can bet they aren't celebrating the Chinese New Year wherever they are. Captain, I've got a bad feeling about this one. These guys aren't your average soapbox syndicate, they've got deep connections. I think we just stuck our hand in a hole and pulled out the King Cobra. Over.' _

Amy watched Murdock's face darken at the news, her own heart skipping a beat. Something in his eyes told her, that if he didn't find Face in standup condition, he'd have no qualms about gaining recompense the hard way.

"Ten-four Colonel," Murdock said his voice completely calm. "Operation Free Faceman is commencing now."

'_Good hunting Captain,'_ Hannibal acknowledged. _'If we get out, we'll meet you at the van. If not—'_

"See ya on the dark side of the moon, over and out." Murdock interrupted him, not wanting to hear the rest. Without a second thought he switched off his transceiver and collapsed the antenna.

For a moment Amy studied the pilot with concern. She could tell he was thinking on what to do next, but there was something else about him that didn't feel quite right. She half considered the fact that perhaps he hadn't fully emerged from the memories he'd been retelling. After all, Murdock's line between reality and not, wasn't too clear at times. The last thing she wanted was to have him sent into a dangerous situation stuck in combat zone 1971. If anything happened to him, or Face, she'd never forgive herself for the rest of her life.

"Murdock—" Amy started.

_Bang!_ The driver side door slammed open as Murdock unduly kicked it, cutting her off. Hopping out, his Chucky Taylor's hit the pavement grinding on the stray gravel underfoot. Reaching up, he yanked down his scrunched jacket hem. His face was completely blank, his brown eyes shadowed and focused.

"Murdock." She tried again speaking louder. This time, he slammed the door in her face with enough force to shake the chassis. Amy watched him walk away in the side mirror until he disappeared around the rear of the van. A moment later, he yanked open the back doors and went for the padlock on the weapons box.

Turning around in her seat, Amy climbed up on her knees to peer over the grey headrest. Murdock had managed to free the lock and was busy hauling out a rifle and extra clips. She watched him tuck a .45 into the back of his waistband hiding it beneath his jacket.

"Murdock, will you listen to me a second?" Amy was beginning to feel she was trying to communicate with a stone wall.

Once again, he ignored her. Whether it was intentional or not, she didn't know.

Slinging the strap of the Ruger over his shoulder, Murdock picked up an extra handgun. Checking the magazine, he seemed satisfied it was fully loaded. Returning the magazine to the well with a tap of his palm, he released the slide with an audible 'click' chambering a round.

"Here," He said, tossing the Sig Sauer toward the front seats. Amy managed to catch it haphazardly, knowing it was meant for her.

"Keep that handy," Murdock ordered. "And stay put 'till you hear from me." He looked her in the face for the first time since Hannibal's message, giving her a hard stare that said he was serious. Amy opened her mouth to speak, but he glanced away before she could do more. Closing the box lid, Murdock re-shut the rear doors signaling he was finished with any form of conversation.

Amy shook her head in exasperation. She couldn't let him go off like this. Flipping around, she set her gun on the dashboard and opened the passenger side door. Sliding off the tall seat, she walked purposefully around the front of the van to block his way to the street.

"Murdock, stop!" She commanded, planting herself directly in his path. He wasn't himself, she could sense that, and there was no chance in hell she was letting him go in alone.

"Amy, get back in the van." Murdock said, moving to walk around her.

Shaking her head, she reached out and grabbed his arm. Her tug halted him.

"Amy let go." His words were even and slow, but hiding a distinct threat.

"No, you can't go in there." She said.

Murdock closed his eyes in annoyance at her persistence, drawing an irritated breath between clenched teeth, "Face needs me –I have to go. Now get back in the van." He replied, trying to pull his arm free. Her grip only tightened.

"I know you do, but you're not alright Murdock, I can tell. I'm coming with you."

At this, Murdock's temper flared. He'd reached the end of his rope. Who was she to say if he was alright or not? For the last ten years of his life he'd been told by one person after another that he was ill, incompetent, and mentally unstable. Well he wasn't. Not now, not ever. And he was not about to lose the life of another friend, just because some _skirt_ thought he was without sound judgment under fire!

"No. You know what—" Murdock muttered darkly, grabbing Amy by the blouse front with both hands. "I wanna tell you something missy." He heard her gasp in surprise at his actions, but it didn't slow him down. Instead, Murdock yanked her around, shoving her hard backwards into the alley wall closest to them.

Amy winced as her back struck the brick. For a moment her brain felt scrambled in utter confusion. Then the reality of Murdock's weight crashed in on her, and she realized, with cold certainty, that yes! He had really thrown her against a wall! His fists clutched her shirt with a vengeance. His body was so close; she could feel the harsh stock and barrel of the rifle pressing into her stomach as it was caught between them. Looking up into his black gaze Amy found, for the first time since they'd met, that she was actually afraid of him.

"Now you listen, cause I'm only gonna say this once," Murdock was speaking again, his voice low yet adamant. "You don't know me. You have no idea what I am capable of, and you will _never_ know any level of the hell I have been through—"

"Murdock, you're hurting me." Amy interjected, trying to make him stop. He kept pushing harder; the texture of the brick scratched her shoulder blades through her top.

"—I can handle this situation on my own. And I _will not_ leave any member of my team in the hands of the enemy. You got that? I refuse to endanger your life in the process, so you _will_ shut your mouth and do as you are told—!"

"Murdock?" She cried out, half in pain, half in disbelief at his words. He ignored her.

"—There is nothing wrong with me Amy!" He shouted in her face, shaking her in his grip for emphasis. "I did my best then and I'll do it now! Do you hear me? I did my best! I did my best Claire!"

Amy blinked, shocked. Her stomach fell to her toes and she forgot about the breech bolt pinching her side. Murdock was looking straight at her, but she knew he wasn't seeing...

_Murdock adjusted the front of his open dress uniform nervously, feeling self-conscious and overly skinny –if that was even possible with his physique. He'd lost weight since the last time he'd worn it, and the fit in the shoulders was less than he'd have liked. Thankfully, with his arm in a sling, he didn't have to worry about buttoning up, or he would have been forced to realize it didn't fit in the waist anymore either. Unfortunately, that also meant he was left open to the elements, which included the chilly, mid-January, Boston air. _

_Patting the brown paper package tucked carefully under his bandaged arm, Murdock adjusted his limp left sleeve so it hung properly on its own. Straightening his tie first, then his cap, he checked the crease in his pant legs before running out of reasons to procrastinate further. With a reluctant frown, he clamped down on the urge to walk away, and finally extended a forefinger to quickly stab the doorbell button in front of him. The resulting trill echoed inside the house and immediately a dog started barking._

Good ol' Molly._ Murdock thought wistfully. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt both sick, and cold, as he waited on the front stoop. _

_To distract himself from thoughts of the inevitable, Murdock looked around at the home he was invading. He'd only ever heard it described in passing; a two story Colonial in the suburbs, with a porch, a chimney, and a quiet street. Heck, there was even a picket fence to keep the dog in and the neighbors out. At the moment however, all he could see was snow in every direction. The only defining feature in the white yard was a fat snowman standing guard beside the sidewalk gate._

_Murdock couldn't help but notice the pilot's scarf wrapped around its neck. A sharp pang struck his gut as he watched a corner of the stiff fabric flutter in the chilly morning air. He had tried to ignore it before, but the contrast between the white scarf and the black wreath he'd seen on the door hit him like a ton of bricks. _

Knock it off! H_e berated himself inwardly, trying to keep it together. What he wouldn't have given to be back in Nam gambling with his life, than on leave in the States with this duty to perform. _

How selfish can you be H.M.?_ A wave of shame and guilt washed through him._

_An eternity seemed to pass for Murdock, standing all alone with only his cowardly thoughts for company, but in reality only a minute had ticked by. Twice he wondered if he should ring again, but just when he reached for the bell he heard the scrabble of dog nails on a wood floor. _

"_Down girl," A muffled voice said from inside. _

_Clearing his throat, realizing this was it; Murdock straightened his posture and waited as the front door swung open. The moment there was room enough to squeeze through, a black and brown German Sheppard mix leapt out at him. Her tail wagging profusely, the dog approached excitedly, sniffing circles around him. _

_Crouching down instinctively, Murdock reached out with his good hand to scratch the exuberant animal behind the ears. "Hey, Mollster," He murmured through clenched lips as the dog stuck her cold black nose in his face, licking his chin. Smiling despite himself he rubbed her neck, rattling the tags hanging from her red collar. _

"_Molly inside," The tone of her owner's voice superseded the animal's enthusiasm. With one last snuffle, the dog turned around and trotted back into the house, leaving Murdock to stare at a pair of well-worn paddock boots now in his view. He knew immediately who they belonged too._

_Looking up from his position near the floor, he caught sight of the woman he'd come to see. Her blue eyes widened in recognition of him and she clapped a hand over her mouth in surprise. That's when the tears started._

_Murdock's heart dropped to the soles of his leather shoes. Straightening up he stood awkwardly, unsure of what should come next. He'd been running this scenario through his head the entire time he'd been on the plane, and now, that it came to it, he couldn't think of a single thing to do or say. He'd never felt like a bigger fool in all his life._

_Claire watched him, her gaze mirroring exhaustion, her fingers trembling against her lips. She was so small and pale in comparison to his tall height and tanned skin; standing there, looking almost childlike, in her oversized sweater. Despite appearances, Murdock knew she was no child. The last of her innocence had been shattered weeks ago by three little words on a hand delivered certificate: killed in action. _

"_I did my best Claire." Murdock blurted out before he could stop himself. He didn't know why, but he'd needed to say it to her face._

_Tears continued to trickle down her quivering chin. Her cheeks had begun to turn a light shade of red. Murdock wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or the surprise of seeing him. Then, without warning, Claire stepped forward and buried her head in to his good shoulder mindful of his sling. _

"_I know H.M." She sniffed, hugging him tight. "I know." And then she began to cry for real..._

Amy's chest was rising and falling steadily beneath his fists. Murdock glanced down as the memory dissipated, and saw that he was still clutching her by the shirt. Even though he'd only faded out for several seconds, he felt as if he'd been gone forever. Without further hesitation, he released his hold on her.

The instant his grip slackened, Amy threw her hands up and pushed him away. Murdock took two steps backward, propelled more by the look of anger on her face than her shove. She could see that whatever he'd remembered hadn't dulled the near manic resolve in his eyes. Instead, he seemed more determined than ever.

"Face needs me." Murdock stated, wanting to apologize for his behavior, but finding the words stuck in his throat. In retrospect, he wasn't sorry for any of what he'd said. All of it was true.

Amy wrapped her arms about herself and edged her way off the wall, skirting him warily. "Then go." She said. Any of the warmth she normally had for him was gone. Murdock wondered if he'd ever get it back.

"Fine," He mumbled, "You stay put. Keep the doors locked and the gun handy. Don't move unless you hear from me, kapeesh?"

He didn't wait for her answer. Turning around, Murdock trotted light-foot to the end of the alley. Amy watched him glance back and forth, checking if the coast was clear, before dashing across the empty street to an abandoned warehouse.

When she could see him no more, Amy walked back to the van. Climbing into the driver's side seat, she locked the doors as instructed. There was an extra radio on the console in front of her and she picked it up. Switching it on, she checked to see it was set to the frequency used by the team.

"Oh, Murdock," Amy sighed, recalling the glazed look in his eyes when he'd relapsed. Even though it had only been for a moment, she knew that was just long enough to get him killed if it happened again.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, Thanks for reading!<strong>


	4. Da Nang, January 1970

**Da Nang, January 1970**

_It was amazing what heat could do to the smell of jet fuel mixed with hydraulic fluid._

_Murdock took a whiff of the scent finding that, despite the harsh tang, he actually didn't mind it. It was a comforting smell, something familiar, like the aroma of a gas station would be to frequent travelers. In one sniff it conjured thoughts of great adventure in the unknown. Fuel was synonymous with almost every aircraft and anything that flew was the epitome of freedom. _

_Man, he was hopeless._

_Stepping off the designated runway, Murdock left behind the helicopter that had brought him to Da Nang Air Base, hub of the Republic of Vietnam. Giving a farewell wave to the pilot who had accompanied him, he joined a group of soldiers exiting a nearby cargo plane, a C-130. The tarmac was warm and sticky beneath his feet as he was shuffled along in a line of green fatigues toward an endless row of grey buildings. Slinging his duffle over his shoulder, he apologized when he struck the private walking on his left. _

_Deciding he didn't like to be herded, Murdock stepped out of the group and edged off to the side. Pausing by a stack of crates in front of an open hanger, he fished his crumpled transfer orders out of a pocket and checked the first sentence. He was to report to a Colonel Brand at the 32__nd__ Aviation Battalion near Binh Thuy. How in the hell was he going to get there? _

_As if in answer to his unspoken question, he heard his name being shouted over the din of distant engines and the skid of landing gear on pavement. Looking around, he tried to pinpoint the origin of the voice and finally spotted a man jogging toward him. _

_Picking up his duffel from where he'd dropped it on the ground, Murdock waited for a base worker with a hand-truck to pass by, before going to meet the stranger halfway. As they got closer, he was able to get a good look at the tall and lanky figure approaching._

_The man appeared no older than himself, with a moderately handsome, tan, face, and a head of dark hair. He was wearing a standard pair of boots, cargo trousers, and a brown A-2 over his olive drab T-shirt. Murdock couldn't help but notice the flight jacket. It was a classic, made of horsehide leather, unlike the cheap, cloth bombers most pilots were presently being graced with upon graduation. He himself was lacking such a gem._

"_Hey!" The man called out in greeting, slowing his trot to a walk, and then a halt, as the two met. "Are you a Captain H.M. Murdock by any chance?" He asked panting to catch his breath. "If you are man, then I have to tell ya; I've been looking everywhere for you!" One hand on his waistband, he extended the other forward between them._

_Murdock accepted the handshake, judging the man's solid grasp and constant eye contact as admirable points. "Uh, yeah, I'm Murdock." He answered, noting the stranger's slight accent. He placed it as Boston born. Still testing each other's grip, Murdock hoped the man would offer his name without being asked._

"_Ah, then you're my new pilot. I'm Captain Daryl White, by the way." The man grinned. The sun was bright in his eyes, causing him to squint as he did so. _

_Murdock raised an eyebrow, "Your new pilot?"_

_Daryl dropped the handshake and shrugged, "Well you're not the USO girl we requested so you have to be my new chopper pilot –hey." His smile broadened at the conflict forming on Murdock's face, "Don't look so glum H.M. you'll get used to me, scouts honor." Daryl held up an incorrect, two-fingered, salute. Murdock doubted the man was ever in the Boy Scouts. _

"_Now, come on," Daryl slapped his shoulder. "The bird's all warmed up and we got some base hopping to do, so let's go." With that he turned and began to walk away, threading through a passing crowd of grunts. _

_Highly confused, Murdock stood where he was, double checking his transfer orders. A second later Daryl reappeared at his elbow, having realized his new acquisition wasn't following._

"_Hey man, you coming or what? I don't have all day you know."_

"_Um, yeah," Murdock glanced from the paper to the man. "Uh, Daryl—?"_

"_No, call me Pots. All my buddies do."_

_Murdock nodded, noticing the friendly effort. "Alright, Pots, it says here I'm supposed to report to a Colonel Brand—" _

"—_at the 32__nd__," Daryl finished for him. "Yeah, where did you think I was taking you? Disneyland?" He added with a small chuckle. "Now come on, I wanna introduce you to one of our girls." _

_Murdock fervently hoped the man was referencing a helicopter. _

X X X

"_So what does H.M. stand for?"_

_Murdock glanced over at Daryl from his position in the co-pilot's seat of the Huey. They'd only been in the air several minutes, but he'd been expecting a conversation to start. Daryl had assured him their flight to the base would be close to five hours, with a stop at a smaller airstrip along the way to refuel, so for now he couldn't see any other option to pass the time. _

"_It stands for whatever you want it too." Murdock replied loudly, hearing his voice crackling across the intercom between them. "But the guys at the academy just called me Howlin' Mad."_

"_Ha!" Daryl guided the cyclic, adjusting their course. "And why's that now?"_

_Murdock grinned, "Have you ever tried to barrel roll a B-52 into a nosedive with your flight instructor in the next seat?"_

"_No." Daryl responded as if waiting for the punch line._

"_I did." Murdock said proudly. "It was completely by accident –the first time. But the guys on the ground said I executed it beautifully. Lavoro magnifico!" _

"_Wait, the first time?" Daryl asked, ignoring the Italian._

"_Yeah, I had so much fun I thought I'd do it again. Twice." _

_Daryl started laughing, "Okay, rollin' a BUFF is mad, I get that. So then, what does the Howlin' part come from?" _

_Murdock scratched his chin under the mic, "Oh, that? That came from this little howl I like to do on take-off. Kinda helps me get off the ground easier."_

"_Ah," Daryl shrugged. "I just usually yell 'up' myself."_

_Murdock nodded as if seeing the merit. "That works for you does it?" _

"_When I remember to start the engine," Came the flat reply. Now it was Murdock's turn to laugh. _

_He was beginning to relax, finding Daryl's company to be far less irritating than first expected. The comforting _whomp_, _whomp_, of the rotor blades overhead was also helping to ease his pre-unit jitters. It was always like this for him before insertion. Being transferred to a new command with new people was difficult. _

"_So I heard about the escape in Hanoi." Daryl was speaking to him again, trying to avoid any awkward silence. "Damn nice flying man. Commendation and everything, right?"_

_Murdock scowled out his window, watching the shadow of their Huey trail over the landscape below. He'd only lived through that whole event several months earlier, and it was still fresh in his mind. Somehow, he always managed to feel uncomfortable when people brought up the citation. He didn't like being singled out as a hero, especially not when other pilots were risking their lives every day just the same –without so much as a thank you note from the people back home. _

"_Uh, yeah," Murdock said when he realized Daryl was still awaiting an answer. "It was a crazy night, you had to be there."_

"_I bet," Daryl tapped a gauge on his right, reading the needle. He seemed to sense Murdock's discomfort and tried to smooth it over. "Well, I'm pretty sure that's why my CO wanted you anyway. There aren't enough crack pilots in the Brigade." _

_Feeling it was time to turn the attention off him, Murdock decided to pose his own question. "So, Pots, where did you get your jacket?"_

_Daryl grinned. "I knew that was coming, I saw you eyeing it back at the base. It's a lot better than that flight suit you're wearing isn't it?" Murdock glanced down on impulse and adjusted his zipper with a frown. "I'm kidding," Daryl continued, his grin almost audible now, "It's actually a gift from my wife; she sent it to me for Christmas. I got it in July. That's the mail around here for you; you can never time it right."_

"_You're married?" Murdock inquired with interest. Daryl reached up and pulled his dog tags out from under his shirt for him to see. A gold wedding band was hanging on the ball chain with them._

"_Yup, six years this February, on Valentine's Day actually. Yeah, don't laugh." He chided when he heard the distorted chuckle cross their connection, "We thought we were being clever. What do you want from a couple of kids?" _

"_How old were you?" Murdock tried to imagine himself with a wife back home. It was a surreal thought._

_Daryl dropped the tags. "I was twenty, Claire—my wife's name is Claire by the way—she was nineteen. I swear it was my newly acquired wings that did it."_

"_So the jacket then," Murdock redirected the conversation to the original question. He felt suddenly uneasy about prying any further into the man's family life. "You wanna explain the back of it to me?"_

"_Ah, well, yes," Daryl seemed to be putting his thoughts in order. "The tiger is a long story, but the short of it is, it's cool. Now, Da Nang's on there because that's where I was first stationed when I came over at the end of 68', before I was trotted down here. The 1970 bit is meant to signify the New Year. See, I recently extended my tour another six months, and Claire thought she'd send this to me for luck, you know? I promised her I wouldn't take it off. She says it's her assurance I'll make it home safe." _

_Murdock found he liked the idea, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Wouldn't body armor have been a better choice?" _

_Daryl turned his head just enough to give him a quick look. "Hey, wisenheimer, you know what they say about that: if you're wearing body armor, the incoming will probably miss that part..." _

_Crash!_ Murdock winced as the glass he'd struck shattered around the butt of his rifle, falling outward and inward. He only hoped he'd picked a window far enough away, that nobody would notice the sound.

_Yeah, right._ Even he didn't believe that. Unfortunately, fighting the clock meant you had to do dumb things and hope for the best. Kicking the rest of the jagged glass out of the rotting frame; Murdock leaned in. Supported by his left knee on the cement, he extended his right leg through the basement level window. Now, all he had to do was wish for something to stand on.

The toe of his sneaker touched the solid platform of a machine table directly beneath the windowsill.

"Who needs a genie?" Murdock muttered to himself, climbing through the rectangular opening with a squeeze and a grunt. When both feet were planted firmly on the tabletop, he straightened experimentally. Reaching up, Murdock touched the rusting pipes running lengthwise across the ceiling above his head. He barely had room enough to stand under them.

Abandoning the table for the floor, he landed with a crunch on the scattered glass strewn over the cement. Slinging the rifle to his hip, Murdock held it steady and looked around at the dark, wet, concrete foundation surrounding him. He was in the basement of a much larger five-story warehouse, part of a range of disused buildings forming a complex; complete with broken, multicolored, windows and rusting metal support beams. Debris, old paper, and abandoned machinery—once used to print newspapers and magazines for the LA circuit—lay everywhere.

The whole place smelled like mold and mildew, and there was only enough sunlight coming through the holes in the floor above to make visibility moderate at best.

_I need to go up,_ Murdock decided, walking carefully toward an ancient freight elevator on the far side of the room. There were slide doors on his left and right, subdividing the large basement into sections that stretched the length of the building. But while he guessed Hannibal was most likely somewhere on this floor, he knew that wasn't his objective. He needed to find Face, and to do that, he had to go up to ground level.

While he'd been surveying the outside of the warehouse, before breaking and entering, Murdock had found all the obvious entrances well covered. Which wasn't a big surprise, but once he put himself inside the head of a hardened Chinese criminal, he'd found his imagination sufficient enough to surmise where Face might have been taken.

By the four, two-hundred pound, tattooed guards standing outside the giant metal track doors on the loading dock, leading to the wide empty bay, Murdock had determined this was where his friend was being held. It made sense; if you wanted the edge in a situation you chose an area with the greatest vantage point from all angles. If you wanted to torture someone without worry his buddies might sneak in and attempt rescue, you picked a wide open space to do it, that way, no surprises.

Well, Murdock had decided to blow the lid off that theory for good. If he couldn't go in through the front door, or the side door, or the back door, then he was going to make his own door –which meant in order to obtain the advantage, he needed to go down to go up.

That's where the freight elevator came in.

Once he'd figured on the loading bay, Murdock had gone to find a basement window that would take him directly under the room itself. It had actually been easier to do than expected; then again, everyone was always so busy guarding doors that no one ever thought of watching windows. Planning on finding a freight elevator had been purely based on common sense. After all, almost every warehouse had one. It was mandatory in order to move cargo from floor to floor –even stacks of newspapers were heavy.

Now all he had to do was climb the shaft, get a visual on Face, and go from there.

Murdock stopped to survey the vintage beauty. With her old-style call button, wooden gate, and decaying box it was a reminder of busy days gone by. He only hoped the cables were still attached. Rolling up the gate as quietly as possible, Murdock stepped inside. Tipping his head back in the gloomy atmosphere he peered upward and saw, to his relief, that the pulley system was still intact, the metal cables dangling from their attachment far above.

Muddled light slanted through the gate on the next floor, some ten plus feet beyond him. Murdock listened intently for any echo of voices but heard only quiet. That was never a good sign.

"Bell boy, first floor and make it snappy." He said, using his best aristocrat voice. Slinging the Ruger over his back, he turned to the wall on his left. Jumping up, he caught the top ledge of the open-ceiling car with both hands, his feet scrabbling to find a hold. Once he'd pushed himself high enough to lean on his elbows, Murdock stretched out and grasped the nearest cable preparing to climb.

"Alright, baby. Here goes nothin'."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, Thanks for reading! And a special thanks to those who took the time to leave a review, I really appreciate it!<strong>


	5. Along Came Stiletto

**Along Came Stiletto**

Alright baby, here goes nothin'.

_Murdock let that thought bounce around in his head, calming him. _

_It didn't do much good. His pulse pounded away in his ears at the thought of the Dustoff; his stomach doing flip-flops inside him. They were approaching the coordinates of the lift site at a steady pace. The '_whomp'_ of the rotor blades seemed louder than usual to his heightened senses. Looking for a distraction from his nerves, Murdock turned his attention through the windscreen to study the oncoming jungle. _

_Comprised mainly of tall durian trees and heavy undergrowth, the varied, multi-toned, vegetation formed a swelling green sea. It blanketed the uneven landscape ahead, spreading out in all directions. The color of the jungle complimented the hazy blue sky above, which was streaked with pink from the onset of evening. The sun hung heavy on the horizon, making the distant mountains dark. For a moment, Murdock forgot about his nervousness and appreciated the view from the air. It always amazed him how beautiful parts of Vietnam actually were. _

_When you lived for months in a hooch, or an olive-drab tent—up to your brass in mud for half the year and suppressing heat the rest—you tended to forget about such sights. Unfortunately, while there was beauty, there was also decimation, and the latter tended to take precedence. Obliterated villages, napalmed jungles, and saddles filled with the downed and rotting aircraft, were most of the images afforded a pilot from the air. With all that in mind, it was easy to overlook the untainted hamlets, sweeping fields, and patterned rice paddies which still existed on the fringes of the fighting and dying. _

_Surveying the jungle further, Murdock noted the occasional umbrella shaped kapok—now leafless in the dry season—towering above the rest of the foliage. The kapoks were monsters, rising nearly a hundred and fifty feet from ground level. He knew what it was like to be in a chopper settled on whole stands of trees that high. Many a Dustoff he'd flown co-pilot on, had been for airlifts out of such heights. _

_Those missions were the most harrowing to endure. Equipped with only a hoist, a cable, and a penetrator; they'd land the Huey in the upper branches, always under excessive enemy fire, and airlift the wounded straight out of the jungle, mid hover. Murdock was relieved to know they were presently on course to do a pickup on the ground. However, that knowledge didn't stop his heart from hammering in his throat. _

_Switching his focus to the coordinates, he offered Daryl a minor course adjustment. As co-pilot it was his job to maintain navigation. Giving the gauges a onceover, he made sure everything was still in the green, before returning his gaze outward. Murdock watched the grassland beyond the chopper nose fall away foot by foot. Each successive spin of the rotors brought them closer to the tree line, where a squad of infantry men would be waiting, bearing the wounded._

_The Dustoff call had come in over the shortwave receiver twenty minutes earlier, at 1720 hours. A group of soldiers had been crossing a field and set off a mine. Two men were down, both had taken shrapnel. One was wounded in the leg and other in the back. Both had been classified as 'priority', meaning: loss of blood, treat within four hours._

_After the location had been sent, he and Daryl had left Brand's office to scramble their gear. With the repaired ambulance chopper still on the pad, having already passed the preflight, they'd met the rest of the crew and had been in the air within five minutes of call time. When he'd tested the tail rotor out earlier, Murdock hadn't expected to be using the bird so soon. Then again, in their line of work, it was inevitable that they would. _

_Glancing behind him, he caught sight of the rest of their four man crew –Specialist Terry Connolly and Sergeant J.J. Stevens. Connolly was the flight medic on board, while Stevens was the crew chief. No one said a word inside the Huey outside of what was expected. Everyone was focusing solely on the job ahead; airlifting the wounded to the 29__th __Evac in Binh Thuy. _

_Murdock continued to watch Connolly. At the moment she was busy kneeling on the vibrating cabin floor, sorting through her medical supplies. Arranging bandages and IV fluid bottles, the medic was oblivious to his stare. Out off all of them, she was youngest. Not yet twenty-two, Connolly was tall with long legs and a trim figure –though she appeared slightly underfed beneath her flight suit. Her light brown hair was currently gathered in a tight bun at the base of her slim neck, and her attractive, tanned, face was accented by high cheek bones and a soft mouth. A sprinkling of light freckles on her nose had been thrown in for good measure, adding to her charm. The flight helmet she wore overshadowed the intense look of concentration in her eyes. They, in turn, were accentuated by dark eyeliner, which she continued to wear despite the difficulty of obtaining cosmetics in the boonies. _

_Murdock had liked Connolly since they'd met. Smart and caring, the medic was a constant picture of confidence and serenity during missions. She was the epitome of 'grace under pressure'. He admired her for the ability to keep a brave face, even when he knew she was scared stiff. No matter the situation, Connolly always had a smile to offer the men under her care. Yet, like all nurses and medical personnel, she knew the value of remaining detached from the wounded. Murdock had only ever seen her cry once. They had been evacuating wounded locals from a shelled out village, and a thirty-two week old baby had died in her arms. He'd held her for a solid hour after that, once they'd landed safely at the 29__th__. Suffice it to say, it had been a long night._

_The 'clack' of a rifle cocking, drew Murdock's attention to the lean, clean-cut, African-American sitting, knees up, with his shoulders to the bulkhead. He watched the crew chief check the chamber on his M16. Seeing it was clear, Stevens proceeded to inspect the magazine before reinserting it back into the catch. Satisfied the weapon was ready if needed; he settled it across his lap and lifted the small, sliver, cross pendant around his neck to his lips. After a brief pause—head bowed, eyes closed—he dropped the cross again, letting it mingle with his dog tags, and turned his attention out the port window. Murdock found the scene reassuring and familiar –it was a mission ritual for the crew chief. He'd witnessed it many times. _

_Stevens was the elder of the group. At forty years old, he'd already been through the Korean War, having served at the Kimpo Air Base northwest of Seoul. Although he had seniority in service time, he had only been with the 32__nd__ for over four months, thus making him the newest face on the block. Even in his short time with the unit, Stevens had become well respected by everyone who knew him –although he tended to keep to himself when not on duty. The man had a calming presence and a good nature. Being quite athletic, he was the most sought after team member for camp sports –if he could be persuaded to participate. _

_When the heat was on, Stevens, like Connolly, was extremely dependable. He knew his job and he did it to the upmost of his ability, well exceeding what was expected. More often than not, he would be right in with the medic, lending a hand with the wounded. His greatest attribute was his faith. While most men had looked to alcohol to bring them through at the end of each day, Stevens had God. Contrary to popular belief, he never equated his Christianity with pacifism. He'd seen too much not to know that, sometimes you had to fight to survive. The image of the man's in-flight, M16 load-n-pray, was something Murdock knew he'd carry with him forever._

_Breaking away from his observations, he turned back to the task at hand and reached for radio. They were close to the LZ now, and he needed to contact the waiting men. Pressing the button on the transceiver,_ _Murdock waited for the static to clear before opening a dialogue, "This is Dustoff 32 to ground, repeat this Dustoff 32 what's your status? Do you copy? Over."_

_A moment later, an unfamiliar voice crackled over the speaker, 'We copy Dustoff. We've got two down; ones got shrapnel in the leg, and the other shrapnel in the back. Be advised, priority. Over.'_

_At least the conditions had remained unchanged. Clicking back on the band, Murdock acknowledged. "Roger that, ETA one minute. How's it looking down there? Over."_

'_That's an all clear on our end, over and out.' The radio went dead. Murdock suppressed a groan. It was common knowledge that grunts tended to exaggerate the security of the LZ for the sake of the wounded. Nine out of ten times the site was never as secure as described._

"_All clear Pots," Murdock relayed to Daryl. The pilot nodded, giving him a 'thumbs up'._

"_Of course it is man," Daryl said over the intercom, "After all, I've got my jacket on and a poker game tonight –I'm feeling lucky…!"_

Pausing when he reached the next gate, Murdock hung on the cable, his feet against the wall, and peeked through the lower slats. A stack of old packing crates at ground level blocked his view. Frowning, he wrapped his legs around the line and began to shimmy further up, trying to get a look into the loading bay. He needed a visual on Face, as well as any possible threats that might be awaiting him inside.

Turning his hat brim backward, Murdock pushed as close to the gate as he could, grabbing hold of the wooden frame with one hand to steady himself. He winced as his actions caused a ripple to swell up the cable, shaking the pulley. He was just thankful the old line hadn't broken when he'd attempted the climb. Holding on, Murdock dangled over the elevator car and looked again.

This time, he was high enough to see over the wall of boxes. The loading bay was a large open room, with tall ceilings, and a cracking concrete floor. Steel poles supported the beams far above and a sheet of busted windows, flaked with stray tar paper, let in the afternoon sunlight from their position over the entrance to the loading dock. There were three remaining walls, two held double doors leading to other parts of the warehouse building. Both, including the door to the dock were closed. Stacks of abandoned crates, and flats of old newspapers, were scattered around the edges of the room like the unfinished sides of a child's fort. The center of the bay was clear, save for a folding table and what looked to be a 1940's era metal office chair –minus the rollers.

Duct taped to the chair, arms and legs securely fastened, was Face.

With his head slumped forward, chin on his chest, he wasn't moving. Murdock felt his stomach clench in anger at the sight of him. To make it worse, at his angle he couldn't get a proper fix on Face's condition. He had no way of telling at this distance how badly his friend was hurt.

Tallying the time in his mind, Murdock figured Face had been separated from the team for close to fifteen minutes now. At the moment they were alone, but he doubted this would last long. There was a car battery on the folding table with jumper cables attached. He didn't have to know how it worked, to know what it was there for. Murdock hoped it hadn't been used yet.

Whoever these guys were, who had managed to capture the A-Team, one thing was certain about them: they were a deadly serious bunch of individuals. It'd been a long time since any of the team had come into contact with persons schooled in crude methods of torture. Not since Nam. Normally they dealt with half-baked, backwoods bullies, egotistical mobsters, or profiteers –but this was different.

This was too familiar.

_I'm comin' buddy._ Murdock righted his hat and slid back down to the cable, knowing he had to move fast in order to use the enemy's absence to his advantage. He knew all the doors were guarded from the outside, but his escape plan did not include such an exit. If he could get Face free quietly, before anyone returned, then they could double back the way he'd come in. That was, if no one had decided to investigate the sound of the window breaking, and if Face could actually walk…

…ha, details.

Hooking his feet around the line for support, Murdock worked on loosing the Ruger from his shoulders. Holding the stock, he extended the rifle forward using the muzzle and barrel to lift the bottom of the freight gate. Pushing it upward, he ignored the faint squeak of un-oiled wheels rubbing in their tracks. When it had risen just enough, he edged the rifle into the gap to hold the gate open.

Grateful for the shield of crates, Murdock shoved off the cable and grasped the floor ledge with both hands; grunting as his knees struck the cement shaft. Putting his feet to the wall, he pushed and pulled his body upward, lifting his torso over the edge. Widening the gap created by the Ruger, Murdock wriggled his way under the gate and rolled out onto the dirty bay floor.

Sitting up, his back covered with white dust, he reclaimed his weapon. Crawling over to the crates, he straightened just enough to sight the target and gain his bearings. After a quick survey, Murdock squatted back down and calculated the distance. Face's position was about five meters behind him, a quarter to his left, in full view of all three entrances. Whatever he did next, it was not going to be easy.

_If ever there was a need for invisibility…or a genie. I dream of Jeanie, with the light brown hair… _Murdock shook his head to dislodge the song. Trying to focus, he put those thoughts aside for another time. Adjusting his grip on the rifle, he brought it in close across his body. With his finger near the trigger, he was ready to move.

Suddenly the left door slid open with a bang, slamming into the track stopper. Murdock ducked back down, his heart pounding. Hearing the approach of heavy footsteps, he rocked to his hands and knees and crawled forward several feet behind the box wall. When he had a better angle of the open door, Murdock stopped and tucked his feet back under him. Squatting low behind a couple of crates stacked one on the other, he peered out over the top and watched two men stride purposefully into the bay.

He couldn't help but notice what an interesting pair they made. The vast difference between them was almost comical –for bad guys.

The first man through the door was average in height, with decidedly Asian features, and a hard, wiry, frame beneath a white tank-top, and a pair of black military trousers. The design of dragon ink up his exposed arms, plus the steel handgun tucked in his belt, told Murdock the man was no member of the local YMCA. He knew an enforcer when he saw one, and the one he was staring at now seemed to have a fixation with his pearl handled stiletto. Murdock heard the action spring click as the knife flipped open, and decided, for the time being, to keep the players straight in his head; he'd call the man Stiletto.

The second figure through the door, following closely on Stiletto's heels like an overeager puppy, was someone Murdock recognized immediately. Jack Stiles was a drug smuggler, a dealer, and had probably hit all the major felon clichés by the age of twelve. Most recently he and his underground operation had become the object of the A-Team's negative advances.

Unlike his lithe companion, Stiles took the adjective 'seedy' to a brand new level. Possessing unnaturally bright red hair, pale, spotty, skin, and a body with obvious muscle deficiency he left a lasting first impression. His looks combined with his choice in clothing—which seemed to have been robbed from the wardrobe department of _Fort Apache—_made it almost impossible to mistake him in a line up.

"Now, Mr. Peck," Murdock's attention heightened as Stiletto began talking. He watched the man walk toward the unresponsive Faceman. Grabbing a handful of blond hair Stiletto lifted the lieutenant's chin off his chest, revealing a bruised and bloody visage –and a ruined shirt front. Murdock cringed at the sight of his friend, and his temper flared once again, his hands tightening on the rifle in reflex.

Face opened his eyelids as far as the swelling would allow and looked up at the man above him. "Hello again ugly." He grinned, his bleeding lips leaving traces of red on his normally white teeth. "I see you brought your sister this time." He added, indicating Stiles. Murdock was relieved to hear him speak.

"Are we really going to go through this again, Mr. Peck?" Stiletto let the goading slide; he was too professional to be bothered. Releasing his fistful of hair, he stood in front of his victim –lazily flipping the knife in his hand, hilt to blade and back again.

Face moved his arms against the tape, indicating the restraints. "Sure, I'm not going anywhere. So if you want to hear it again: there once were these three little pigs –" He was cut short when Stiletto punched him in the gut, rocking the chair. Apparently, the enforcer's professionalism ended with personal jabs. "Thanks for the warning." Face gasped out, trying to breathe normally around the pain in his stomach.

Stiletto leaned in, putting the tip of his knife blade to Face's exposed chest. "You're a funny guy, Peck. And I hate funny guys. So before I decide, whether or not, I'm in the mood to bleed you on the concrete—"He pushed on the tip. Face winced as the sharp steel pierced his skin drawing blood. "I'm going to ask you again: who else knows about this action?"

"Yeah!" Stiles piped up from where he leaned against the folding table, "And who else knows about me wastin' that kid—!"

"Shut up Jack." Stiletto interrupted him. "I don't give a damn about your screw-up—"

"But? I could go down for murder—!"

"Hey, Jack_ass_," Face interjected, cutting him off mid whine. "Priorities, man. If this deal you got goes south, you're going to have a lot more to worry about than murder. Yeah, you'll be the one bleeding on the concrete –ow, ow." He groaned when the pressure on the knife blade intensified.

"Who else knows the Black Dragons are involved here?" Stiletto asked firmly, before Stiles could issue a retort.

Face smiled thinly, "Everybody." He replied snidely.

With a growl, Stiletto straightened and hit him backhand across the jaw. The force of the blow knocked the chair clean over on its side, slamming Face into the cement. He let out a strangled cry of pain as his shoulder took the brunt of the fall. Murdock had to restrain himself from standing up to intervene. He needed to wait. The guards at the open door were looking in at the commotion. If he moved now, he would be spotted before he could do anyone any good.

"That's right, deny it!" Face shouted. He was clearly getting sick of being knocked around. "But we both know you're chop suey, pal! We knew you were involved from the start! And with the information we gave the cops, you, and your little crime syndicate, are history! They'll huff and they'll puff and they'll blow your pagoda down!"

Murdock watched Stiletto shoot Stiles a look, seeking confirmation otherwise. Stiles quailed.

"He's lying. They didn't talk to the cops." He said unconvincingly. "If they're the A-Team, they wouldn't call the cops. They're wanted themselves! Besides, there's no way they coulda known about you –they were only hired by some brat's rents to get me convicted!"

Stiletto motioned for Stiles to help, and together they grabbed Face's chair, hauling it upright.

"Don't be so sure." Stiletto said, closing his knife and returning it to his pocket. Reaching behind his back instead, he drew —what Murdock guessed to be—a Glock 17 from his waistband. Cocking the weapon, he stepped behind Face, snaking an arm around his neck. "Now, listen here," he said. Holding him firmly in the crook of an elbow, he put the muzzle of the gun to Face's temple. "You should know; your friends have escaped."

_Aw, Hannibal._ Murdock frowned. Things were escalating faster than he'd expected. With the rest of the team free, the Faceman was in greater danger.

"No kidding." Face said carefully, thinking the same, mindful of the gun.

Stiletto was unimpressed. "And I got news for you bigshot: they aren't coming to your rescue. You're as good as dead."

Face was completely still, the muzzle tight against his head. "I wouldn't pull that trigger if I were you." He said calmly, too calmly.

Murdock could tell he was buying time. Face wouldn't lose faith in his team; he knew they never left anyone behind. All he had to do was stay alive.

"Oh yeah, and why's that?" Stiletto snapped, irritated by the supposition.

"Because," Face continued. "You lost my friends, so now I'm the only thing you have to offer your bosses. Don't be stupid."

For several agonizing seconds, Murdock felt certain the man would pull the trigger –either out of spite, or the need for control. A familiar helpless feeling began to grow in his chest, pressing against his lungs making it hard to breathe. His hands were cold; his fingers almost numb from his grip on the Ruger. Murdock knew this moment well; it was the moment where he watched, powerless, as the life of a friend was snuffed out before his eyes.

_No, no, no,_ he chanted inwardly, willing the man not to fire.

Stiletto hesitated, than lifted the Glock away. Murdock let out the breath he'd been holding, rolling his eyes in relief.

"Maybe you are, maybe you're not," The enforcer said, squeezing his grip on Face's neck to tip his chin up. "But you better start talking, because once we get around to using that," He gestured with the gun toward the battery on the table, "You're gonna wish I had pulled the trigger." In emphasis, Stiletto pointed the muzzle toward the floor between Face's legs and fired.

The sound echoed around the room. Murdock jumped in his skin as the gun went off –he hadn't been ready for it. Instantly a sharp, phantom, pain began to grow in his left shoulder. Instinctually his right hand moved to compress it…

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, thanks for reading! And again thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it.<strong>


	6. Designation: Urgent

**Designation: Urgent**

_They were under fire._

_The first thing Murdock realized was a burning sensation in his left shoulder. Looking down, confused, he saw a patch of dark blood spreading across the sleeve of his flight suit._

I've been shot?_ His mind screamed, trying to comprehend. _

_The second thing he noticed was the stand of trees drawing steadily closer to the cracked windscreen. Dazed, Murdock glanced over, and caught sight of Daryl's body slumped over the pilot controls. By the posture, he immediately assumed one, or two, of the incoming bullets had slipped home between the sections of the man's body armor. Blood trickled down the side of Daryl's face from a split along his brow. He was out cold. It appeared he'd struck his head on the console, after the first assault of automatic weapons fire had taken them completely by surprise. _

_They had just finished loading the two wounded into the cabin, when the attack had begun. The soldiers meeting them had immediately gone to ground, seeking targets of their own for return fire. It was unclear whether the Viet Cong had been lying in wait at the pick-up zone, or if they had just happened by on accident. Either way, the initial volley of bullets had successfully torn through the cockpit, sending the Huey spinning sideways, unmanned, toward the nearby tree trunks._

"_Aw sh—!" Murdock slurred, putting the pieces together. Lunging for the co-pilot controls, he tried to steady the listing aircraft. The front skid plowed into the dirt, swinging the tail boom wide. Shuddering on impact, the edges of the main rotor blades sliced into the lower branches of the trees nearest them. _

"_Connolly!" Murdock shouted over the hot mic, gritting his teeth in concentration. It was getting increasingly harder to handle the cyclic and the collective at the same time. The mobility of his left arm was diminishing rapidly; his body was going into shock. But he felt no pain. Bullets continued to tear into the hull. Several pinged off the skids, while others punctured the fuselage. _

_Connolly leaned into the cockpit. Her face was white as a sheet, save for a spattering of blood on her cheek and chin. Holding on to the back of the armored pilot's seat, she reached in and immediately checked Daryl's neck for a pulse. _

"_He's alive!" She yelled, "Now get us the hell out of here Captain!"_

_One step ahead, Murdock barely heard her voice in his headset above the rata-tat of the gunfire and the whirr of the rotors. Gaining stability, he hauled back on the collective pitch, forcing the Huey into a climb. Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet –they gained altitude quickly, pulling free of the ground. The entire ship groaned and whined unnaturally. At a hundred and fifty feet, they rose above the jungle, leaving the skirmish behind. Unfortunately, the ascent wasn't fast enough to evade an exploding mortar. The shell detonated near the tail, rocking the chopper violently. _

_Compensating, Murdock applied aft cyclic with up collective. Inducing a maximum airspeed, he held the aircraft steady at eight hundred feet. The main rotor blades laboriously beat the air into submission, and he could feel an unusual strain on the engine. _

_Checking the gauges, Murdock saw, to his dismay, that they were leaking fuel. The Huey had been hit badly in the escape; their current flight wouldn't last long. Glancing at the navigational instruments, he watched them tick uselessly. Apparently they'd lost the VHF navigation aerial too. He had no idea how far off course they were. All he knew, was they needed to land –and soon._

_Murdock pointed the nose of the chopper toward the first open space he could find –a section of grassland just north of a river. With the jungle now miles behind, he hoped their current trajectory would put them down somewhere closer to the evacuation hospital. Still, it wouldn't be close enough. _

"_Come on baby, just a little further," He coaxed, lowering the collective on his left toward the floor. "We're out of fuel!" Murdock shouted to the med crew in the cabin, warning them of the impending descent. Decreasing the lift, he decided to take the chopper down before it stalled out completely. _

_Losing altitude, the aircraft maintained a steady hover. _

So far so good,_ Murdock thought, trying to stay positive. All he really wanted was to get through this and cry. When they got to the 29__th__, he would find an ammo can somewhere and just let it all out. Whether it was alright for grown men or not, he didn't care. _

_Suddenly, a loud bang of metal on metal carried forward from the rear of the chopper. Simultaneously, the rudder pedals beneath his boots gave in. Murdock's stomach flipped, when he realized he was mid landing and no longer had control of the tail rotor. He couldn't even begin to guess what had snapped on the boom! All his energy was now focused on the Huey, as it began to spin. _

_Instantly, Murdock did the only thing he could think of –he shut the throttle off. Cutting the engine, he forced the helicopter into a hovering autorotation. Unfortunately, without control of the tail rotor, the chopper kept spinning, gaining momentum, making it difficult to fly._

_Looking out the window, Murdock tried to get a scope on the landing zone. The last thing he wanted was to catch a skid in a ditch and roll the entire aircraft. Fighting with the pitch, he tried to slow the RPM of the freewheeling rotors. Everything was happening at an increased rate. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to maneuver the tail rotor blades flat, to reduce the amount of anti-torque produced to counteract the engine, but without that ability the entire helicopter just swung wildly. _

"_Come on!" Murdock growled, trying to get control of the spiral downward. After several tense moments, and a thousand thoughts of imminent death, he raised the collective and managed to touch down. With less RPM then he would have liked, and with the additional force of the uncontrolled tail rotor, the landing was anything but gentle. The skids struck the grass, bounced once, and slid hard right before the chopper finally settled._

_The entire ordeal was over in several seconds, but Murdock was considerably shaken. He had never had the opportunity of flying an out-of-control Huey before, and he certainly had never done it at the expense of all the lives on board. He didn't even want to think about what might have happened if he had made a mistake._

_With the heat of the moment passing, Murdock began to feel oddly claustrophobic. He tried to stem the sudden panic rising in his chest, but all he wanted was to get out of the cockpit. Reaching up with trembling fingers, he struggled with the chinstrap on his flight helmet. Murdock felt unusually hot and sticky inside it and he needed it off his head. Everything was burning –his legs, his arms, his hands! His entire body felt like it was on fire! _

_Somewhere in back of his mind, he knew the burning sensation he was experiencing was only a side effect of the adrenaline surging through his system. At the moment however, Murdock didn't care about the science. What he needed was air. Leaning against the co-pilot door, he shoved it hard open, leaving a bloody handprint on the window. _

_Falling out of the chopper, Murdock pulled the lose helmet off as he went, revealing a mess of sweaty hair plastered beneath. Hitting the ground on both hands and knees, he winced when the palm of his wounded arm impacted with the dirt. The interaction sent a wave of pressure to his bleeding shoulder. Immediately, he lifted his hand clear and held the arm flush to his chest for support. In all the peril, he'd forgotten he'd been shot. _

_Remaining on his knees, Murdock tried to gather his wits, waiting for his blurred vision to clear. He attempted to move, but his body refused him. He was frozen in place, staring at the para grass surrounding him. Within a ten foot circumference of the ship, the long green blades had been blown flat by the Huey's landing. His heart hammered away against his ribs. His ears rung. In that moment he was certain of one thing, he'd never been so terrified in all his life._

_Behind him, he could hear Connolly and Stevens in the cabin, calling back and forth to see if everyone had survived the impromptu landing unscathed. Aside from the wounded, still being wounded, it sounded as if all lives and limbs checked out safely. All that was, save Daryl's. _

Pots!_ Murdock reminded himself of reality. Desperate, he prayed for his friend to still be alive, and while he was at it, he asked for the strength to stand as well. _

_Above him, the rotors continued to slowdown, the blades turning lazily. With each successive _whoosh_, the remaining kinetic energy dissipated further. Soon the freewheeling rotor would halt, leaving the helicopter completely dead –grounded. Until then, getting struck by one of the blades, even at this rate of motion, could cause serious bodily harm. Keeping his head low, Murdock forced himself to his feet._

_Leaning heavily against the warm hull, he let the shape of the Huey guide him to the right side. His hand passed over the red cross painted on the nose. The contrast between the insignia and the _'give em' hell mother flyer'_ slogan painted on the aft was almost ironic. While on occasion—when called to a lift during heavy fighting—they did mount the M60 machine guns for self defense, they didn't do it often. It was against the Geneva Convention for medical aircraft to enter a combat zone armed._

_In a perfect world, that was fine, but here, neck deep in the bullets and mortars, it was hard to see the sense in an article like that. It was especially hard to swallow while watching "Charlie" purposefully fire on unarmed air ambulances, regardless of the wounded, or the visible cross emblems. _

_Looking through the bullet punctured plexiglass, Murdock saw Daryl's slumped form –a product of the Viet Cong humanity. A rush of anger flooded through him. He wished they had been armed. What he wouldn't have given to have had the power, and the chance, to deliver as good as they'd gotten! _

_By nature, Murdock had never been a violent person. He fought to defend and killed when he had too –but now, at the prospect of his buddy's death, a new, deep, hate was forming inside him. It was a hate he could only direct toward the enemy. _

God, if he dies…_Murdock thought, letting it linger unfinished. Whether it was meant as a prayer or a threat he wasn't sure. It angered him further to think, he'd flown Dustoff missions before, with the sole purpose of airlifting wounded, enemy, Vietnamese soldiers to safety! He'd risked his life for them. It was almost contemptible! Murdock bit back the urge to use a stronger expletive out loud; ignoring the part of him that said his thoughts weren't completely objective or fair. Then again, there was nothing fair in war. Concentrating on moving his feet instead, he tramped through the tangle of grass to reach the pilot's side._

_Pushing in front of Stevens, he beat the man to the door and yanked it open with his good hand. _

"_Pots?" Murdock called out anxiously. Putting aside his own inner conflict, he hurried to climb up for a closer look; nearly slipping, and missing, the cockpit step in the process. Finally managing to gain the step securely, he leaned into the open door and laid two fingers on Daryl's exposed neck. To his relief he felt a pulse; it was faint, but steady. Lifting his hand away, Murdock noticed the blood on his fingertips. Mostly it was his, but some of it was Daryl's._

_That realization knocked him hard._

"_We, we gotta get him out of here...we gotta help him…" He stammered, overwhelmed. His body wavered; the hate—or adrenaline—he'd been fueling to walk, drained, leaving him suddenly weakened. Before he knew it, he was collapsing –dark spots marring his vision. The pain in his shoulder, which had at first been a compressing, dull, weight on his muscles, was increasing. _

"_Keep it together Captain," Stevens advised gently. Catching Murdock from behind, the crew chief slipped the pilot's right arm around his neck. Holding him steady about the waist, Stevens guided a wobbling Murdock away from the cockpit to the open cabin door. _

"_He's been shot, Terry." He said to the medic who was busy tending her other two patients inside the helicopter. _

"_Yeah, right in the left wing," Murdock concurred. "Losing altitude…" he said as Stevens began to lower him down. He let himself be seated on the metal floor of the cabin. His legs, like jelly, hung uselessly over the edge. _

_Stevens climbed through the open slide door. Grabbing his M16, and a rolled up stretcher off the bulkhead, he jumped back out. "Terry, check him, I'm gonna get White." _

_Slumping against the compartment doorframe, Murdock heard every word. He wanted to move –to help, but found it next to impossible. He didn't like it, but he was beginning to feel exhausted. His limbs simply wouldn't obey any conscious commands._

Lousy parts, I oughta send you back—

"_Let's see what we've got here…" Connolly interrupted his straying thoughts, crawling up beside him._

"_I've been shot." He said, in case she'd missed it the first time. The medic nodded understandingly._

_Murdock knew he was coming down off an adrenaline rush. His endorphins were decreasing, and he was starting to hurt –bad. For the time being, Connolly seemed more concerned about his open wound then his emotional and physical pain. He understood the priorities. After all, a bullet to the shoulder could be as fatal as a shot to the heart if left unattended. _

"_Hang in there H.M.," she encouraged, unfastening the shoulder and waist straps on the chicken plate, or body armor, he was wearing. Pulling the protective vest off her patient, she set it aside and reached into her medical bag for a pair of bandage scissors. _

_Using the scissors, the medic made quick work of cutting a swath, from neck to arm, down the flight suit in front of her. Murdock heard a tearing sound as she ripped the fabric further. Soon his shoulder and forearm were bare to the elbow in the warm air. Peeling what was left of the damp material free from the congealing blood, Connolly pushed her helmet off her sweating brow, to get a better look at the revealed bullet hole. _

_Murdock was aware of the medic's gloved fingers prying gently into the exit wound on his back. Wincing at the rush of pain in response, he glanced to his left, observing the injury for himself. The shot had punctured the muscle, just shy of the bone, and he'd bled out profusely during his wrestle with the Huey. The red stuff was everywhere –would it ever come off? How much had he lost? Already he was beginning to feel lightheaded and slightly anemic. He didn't like feeling so useless, not when Daryl was worse and needed him. _

'If you're wearing body armor, the incoming will probably miss that part.' _Murdock heard his friend's distant voice, echoing inside his head –remnants of a bygone conversation from a day, so many months ago. It was a day which had started in Da Nang, and had ended at the 32__nd__. They'd barely known each other then –just two pilots in a Huey, trying to pass the time. Over the whirr of rotor blades, they'd joked, and talked, and had thrown out idioms for fun. All the while denying themselves the reality that in a couple of weeks, or months, one of them might be dead. _

_Now, their jokes seemed little more than cruel precursors to that reality. No matter how hard he tried, Murdock could not recapture that feeling of invincibility they had projected that day in the chopper. Hurting, he watched as Stevens appeared from up front, carrying Daryl over his shoulder like a fireman. The crew chief stopped several feet in front of the cabin, and very carefully knelt down to lower Daryl's limp, wounded, body to the stretcher on the ground. From his angle, all Murdock could see was the roaring tiger on Daryl's back. It leered at him, reminding him that, no matter what you did, the bullet with your name on it will always find you. _

"_You've lost a lot of blood—" Connolly was speaking again, her words pulling him back from the sight. Murdock looked over at the medic, his gaze blank. Then he remembered –he'd been shot too._

_Had he really forgotten it again?_

Stevens is right,_ Murdock thought, his brain felt scattered. A sick knot had begun to settle in the pit of his stomach. _I have to pull it together…

"—_but it looks like a through-and-through." Connolly continued digging into her medical bag. "If we can get the bleeding to stop, we should be able to get you to the 29__th__ in one piece."_

_Murdock barely acknowledged –he didn't care. Turning his attention back to the stretcher at his feet, he saw Stevens had removed Daryl's flight helmet and was carefully releasing the buckles on his chicken plate. When the crew chief lifted the font of the vest free, Murdock blanched at the amount of blood soaking over the T-shirt underneath. It looked as if Daryl had been shot in the side, under the arm, where the ceramic plate failed to protect. _

"_I'm fine," Murdock muttered, trying to pull away from Connolly. "Go help Pots." His world was slowing down, his movements were growing clumsy. _

So, this is shock?_ He wondered listlessly. He'd only been sitting in the chopper for a minute or two, but to him it could have been hours. His only thoughts of the moment were of Claire and the kids. Daryl couldn't die, he had two little girls who still needed their father to come home safe!_

_Connolly pursed her lips, ignoring his continuous, feeble, attempts at protesting. "Hold still," she said firmly, sprinkling sulfa powder around the wound. "Stevens has got him, he's done this enough to know what to do. I'll help Pots as soon as I put you in order." She added reassuringly. Murdock conceded, realizing his efforts were doing little more than annoying the medic._

_Shaking out a pressure bandage, Connolly applied it to Murdock's shoulder, back and front. Securing the ties quickly around his chest to hold the bandage in place, she made a makeshift sling by stripping off, and cutting up, the rest of his damaged sleeve._

"_Sorry about that," She apologized with a faint smile, maneuvering his arm into position to take the strain off his shoulder. "Hey, I want you to know," the medic added, completely serious, "That you did an upstanding job flying and getting us down today. Don't forget that, okay?" Murdock wasn't even sure he managed a nod in reply. _

_Pulling off her blood slicked rubber gloves; Connolly replaced them with a fresh pair. Giving him a sympathetic pat on the back, she climbed out of the chopper to assist Daryl. Stevens stood to let her kneel down in his place. _

"_Looks like two bullets penetrated the chest, perhaps a lung –I don't know." He said. "I'm gonna get on the horn, see if we can get through to the 29__th__ and raise another chopper." Stevens shouldered his M16 by the strap and adjusted his helmet. "Otherwise, we're going to have to wait 'till they realize we're overdue and that could take an hour –these guys can't wait that long." He checked his watch, wiping a smear of blood off the face with a thumb to read the time. "It's 1800 hours now. I'd rather not be hanging around here after the sun goes down." _

_Murdock looked up, suddenly lucid, "You better let 'em know we're three priority and one urgent now." He said, classifying Daryl as 'urgent' –whether the man was or not. On the grading scale of injuries, urgent meant loss of life, limb, or eyesight –treat within two hours of injury. Many priority cases had been wrongfully called in as urgent before, by grunts afraid for their wounded buddy's life. Now Murdock understood why. _

_Stevens nodded and walked off toward the cockpit._

_Connolly was busy inserting an IV into Daryl's arm. Taping the needle down to his skin, she tucked the glass bottle filled with fluid next to him on the stretcher. Murdock slid out of the cabin and stood shakily on both feet. Moving closer, he managed to stand long enough to set himself heavily down on the left, across from her._

_There was a pause, before Connolly finally glanced up from applying pressure to Daryl's wounded side. _

_Murdock caught her eye. "I wanna help." He said quietly._

_The medic smiled gently, taking in his lost, vacant, expression. It was a look many soldiers carried after witnessing something they hadn't been ready for. Most bounced back with time, others didn't._

"_I know H.M.," Connolly said. He knew she couldn't offer him more than that, but he didn't need it anyway._

_Just then, Daryl started coughing, coming too. Murdock leaned forward hopefully. _

"_Aw man," Daryl groaned, his eyelids fluttering slowly open. There was a moment of disorientation in his gaze as he tried to focus on the faces above him. Then, with a gasp, his eyes widened further, his memory returning in force. "Murdock—!" He cried, trying to sit up. Connolly grabbed his shoulders pushing him firmly back down._

"_Stay still Pots." Murdock said, laying a hand on his friend's chest. _

_Daryl's face was ghostly white beneath his tan. "Shit!" he hissed desperately between clenched teeth. Despite warnings he continued to move around, he seemed convinced if he sat up he'd be fine. His throat constricted, he was clearly in pain. Connolly immediately gave him a morphine injection, trying to calm him._

"_You wanted to help Murdock, so keep him down." She ordered, trying to get a closer look at the entry wounds. There were no exits; the bullets were still lodged inside the man's chest._

_Lifting his left hand up, Daryl subconsciously looked for an anchor. Murdock recognized this and grabbed the shaking hand in his own, "You're gonna be fine Pots." He said, trying to look him in the eye. Daryl's grip tightened as he began to cough again, trying to breathe. He was panicking. _

"_He's having trouble breathing; I think one of the damn things nicked a lung." Slinging the blood soaked sponge she'd been using away; Connolly grabbed another cloth and pressed it to the wound, trying to stem the fresh bleeding his movements had caused. The look on her face told Murdock, she wasn't happy with what she was seeing. _

"_They really got me, didn't they?" Daryl asked in disbelief. Murdock nodded, still holding his hand securely. "Yeah, magnet ass," He said humorously, attempting to hide his own fears from his friend. "On the Brightside, I think they missed the jacket." He added dryly. For all his outward confidence, he couldn't stop the lump of thick emotion rising in his throat. _

_Daryl started a breathless chuckle. "Well, I guess the jacket really was lucky. It survived." With that he relaxed into the stretcher, his eyelids closing. His breathing grew easier as the morphine took effect. He'd passed out again, but the grasp of his hand never slackened. Murdock knew for the time being, he was Daryl's only solid link on reality… _

"My tailor hates burns."

Murdock blinked back from his thoughts at the sound of Face's bravado. Releasing his shoulder he realized, with distaste, that he'd faded out…again. For a moment he considered that perhaps Amy had been right. What if he really couldn't handle the past? Every time he drifted, the memories became more tangible. This time he had actually felt the pain of being shot, and the surprise of it had nearly made him drop his weapon! To make matters worse, he could still feel the helpless anger in the pit of his stomach.

"Hey, you know, we could talk about this over dinner. I know this great little place…" Face's charm was failing as Stiletto began unraveling the jumper cables and clamps from the table.

_No, I can do this,_ Murdock said to himself. He needed this one to turn out right.

Looking over the crates to the door, he saw the guards had closed it once more. Most likely in an effort for privacy, once Stiletto and his sleaze began their shock therapy session. He knew the two men were desperate—they were running out of time—which made them more dangerous. Unfortunately, with Hannibal loose, Murdock knew he was running out of it too. At the first opportunity, he knew the Colonel would call the cops. It was his style. And the moment the police arrived, Face would be dead.

He wouldn't let that happen. It was time to stage a rescue.

_It's now or never,_ Murdock rallied, preparing to stand. For the moment he had the advantage. Both Stiles and Stiletto had their backs turned to his position.

Grabbing the breech bolt on the rifle, he stood up from behind his hiding place. Stepping out of the shadows at the edge of the bay, Murdock pulled it back with an audible 'clack', chambering.

It was an ominous calling card.

"Hold it right there muchachos," Murdock said darkly, weapon lowered at the hip. "I'm Johnny Raincloud, and I'm about to spoil your fun."

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><p><strong>TBC, Thanks for readingreviewing and Happy 4th of July!**


	7. The One Two Point

**The One-Two Point**

"You okay, Faceguy?"

Face watched Murdock stride out of the shadows at the back of the bay to stand, feet apart, Ruger in hand, ten feet away. A wave of relief flooded through him, momentarily numbing the pain wracking his body. He had never been more relieved to see a psychiatric patient in all his life! In fact, outside of a botched mission in Cambodia, he'd never been so relieved to see anyone before.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine…sort of," Face replied, wiggling his aching jaw experimentally.

"Okay, hang in there buddy," Murdock said with a confident wink. "Alright you two, front and center." He continued, switching his attention to the backs facing him. "I wanna see your ugly mugs. Hands up, no funny business."

With slight uncertainty, both men lifted their hands away from their body. Face could almost feel the rage beginning to boil underneath the hard, clean, facial planes of the Asian enforcer standing in front of him. The man dropped the jumper cables to the floor, his teeth clenched. It was apparent he disliked being told what to do, a lot more than being held at a disadvantage. Stiles, on the other hand, just looked nervous. The tension in the air was nearly palpable, as the two men turned slowly around on request. Both moved warily, unsure of what they might find behind them.

"That's it, good boys" Murdock bated, once they were all looking at one another. "Now, I wanna see you put those pretty little pieces you got on the table, nice and easy. And if you so much as _think_ about calling for the guards—" He paused dramatically, lifting the rifle from hip to shoulder. "I _will_ drop you lower than your combined IQ. Ya got that? _Jack_." Murdock applied the name derogatorily to both the men, and took another threatening step forward.

The pose was convincing enough. On his right, Face caught Stiles movement out of the corner of his eye. The man was the first to acquiesce with the demand. Pulling a beat-up, duct taped, Beretta out of his waistband, he carefully laid it down on the tabletop beside the battery. When it was done, he backed away for good measure.

Murdock voiced his approval, imitating an Irish accent. "You be a right good lad there Jacky Boy, A-plus for listenin' in class. Now you—" He turned to the enforcer hesitating to comply. Closing the gap between them, Murdock planted himself a foot or two in front of the shorter man. Extending the weapon forward, he set the muzzle against the chest seething beneath the white tank top.

"Don't give me an excuse to make my life easier, Stiletto." He said in his regular drawl.

Face's split eyebrow lifted briefly. _Stiletto?_ He repeated curiously to himself. Then he recalled the enforcer's pearl handled knife and understood, finding it too good to ignore. "You shouldn't name them Murdock. You become too attached that way."

"Ha!" Murdock snorted at the idea, "I've been fonder of garbage bags." He half growled, his eyes following Stiletto like a hawk. The man moved cautiously; producing the Glock from behind his back, before edging over to lay it on the table.

Face smirked at the memory.

Once Stiletto had discarded his weapon, Murdock summoned him close again and stuck his hand into the enforcer's right hip pocket. "That's quite a nice letter opener you got there." He said, pulling out the folded knife. "I bet you get a lot of mail, huh?"

Stiletto simply set his jaw, refusing to reply. Murdock stepped back and tossed the knife toward Stiles, being sure to keep the mouth of the Ruger against Stiletto's sternum.

"Here you go Jacky, help my friend out."

Face turned his head to watch Stiles approach, blade open. Letting his gaze follow the blade to his right wrist, he waited while the layer of duct tape was sliced through. The moment his arm was free, Face immediately snatched the knife away from Stiles clammy grip.

"I'll take that, thanks." He said smugly, going to work on the rest of his bindings himself. He couldn't stand to sit in the hard chair any longer, but he wasn't about to let Stiles linger near him with a sharp object.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Stiletto asked suddenly, speaking for the first time since he'd been caught.

Pausing in his struggle with the heavy tape, Face glanced up briefly. He'd had the same question rolling around inside his head since Murdock had appeared. It had come somewhere between '_there goes my date tonight'_ and '_hallelujah!_' Noting the impassive expression his friend was wearing, Face had a funny feeling Stiletto wasn't going to get the answer he wanted.

"Well," Murdock started slowly, "You know how it goes, _qiguai de shiqing fasheng zai yi liang ge dian_."

Face's brow lifted in surprise. The sudden stream of Chinese, spoken with true American enunciation, forced him to suppress a chuckle. Murdock's talent was endless and highly amusing –even in the worst predicaments. With both arms free, Face bent to cut his legs loose. He smiled at the floor, despite his sore lips and cheeks. Although he had no idea what had just been said, he had a sneaking suspicion Stiletto wasn't going to appreciate it.

This could be fun.

"Wait, what?" Stiles piped up beside him, sounding confused.

_Idiot,_ Face huffed inwardly rolling his eyes. Ripping the duct tape off his left pant cuff, he moved to the right leg –waiting to hear an explanation.

"_Go _on," Murdock said to Stiletto, gesturing with the rifle toward Stiles, "Why don't you educate your friend here?"

Stiletto's jaw flexed irritably, "It's a Go proverb," He gritted out. "'Strange things happen at the one-two point.'"

The answer didn't help. "And what does _that_ mean?" Stiles inquired further.

Tearing the rest of the tape off, Face continued listening to the exchange. Closing the knife, he pocketed it for compensation, and attempted to stand up. It was difficult, but with a few grunts he managed to leave the uncomfortable chair behind and stretch his legs. Every move he made reminded him he was in dire need of an extra long bath, some aspirin, and a new suit.

"It means, _sonny_," Murdock said, annoyed, "That sometimes in a fight, the normal rules cease to apply. You cornered the A-Team and after you do that—"

He never finished.

Using the conversation as a distraction, Stiletto struck. His left hand flew up knocking the rifle away, cutting Murdock off mid-sentence. In the same instant the enforcer stepped forward, swinging with his right fist.

Stunned, Face watched the punch land hard. The force of the blow snapped Murdock's head back, splitting his lip and drawing blood. A second later Stiletto followed through with a side kick to the chest. Caught completely off guard, Murdock was shoved backward, the wind driven clean out of his body. Tripping over his own feet, he crashed heavily into a stack of old pallets behind him. The rotting wood gave beneath his weight with a loud crash, knocking him flat on his back. The Ruger broke from his grasp as he fell, clattering to the cement.

"Hey!" Face objected, alarmed. Swept up in surprise, he failed to realize Stiles had grabbed his left shoulder until it was too late. Before he could react, Face was yanked roughly backward by the jacket. Taking a step, he felt the drug dealer close in on him.

Stiles angled the muzzle of the retrieved Beretta over Face's chest, just above the heart. "Drop it! Or I'll waste him right here!" He cried, his words echoing around the bay. Climbing to his feet holding the rifle, Murdock looked up quickly at the sound of Stiles voice. Spotting Face he froze, his eyes going wide in dismay.

Just then, the loud screech of rollers flying against metal tracks punctuated the moment. On the right and left, both side doors slammed open simultaneously with a bang, forcing Face's heart into his throat. Glancing between the doors—careful not to move his head—he watched the entry of four, large, Triad guards who had been standing beyond. Alerted by the shout they came in weapons raised, two on each side.

"_Xiatai!_" Stiletto barked out, quickly lifting his hands, "_Xiatai!"_ He repeated, ordering the men to stand down.

On command, the guards lowered their submachine guns and stood waiting. Face couldn't help but be reminded of obedient pit bulls –they certainly looked the part. Differing in height, but similar in mass, they were four of the heaviest individuals he'd ever seen –in more ways than one. All were completely bald, wearing a various array of street clothes and tattoo ink on every visible bicep and forearm. Two of the guards on the right possessed nasty scars. One had a crescent moon from eyebrow to cheek bone, and the other bore a puckered white line from shoulder to elbow. The remaining guards on the left had nothing significant about their person, aside from the thirty-two round, 9mm cartridge, mini-UZI they each held. All four shared the same weapon, along with similar Type-A personalities which was evident by their impossibly tough expressions.

_We are so completely screwed_. Face thought, breaking his study of the guards to glance down at the semi-automatic pistol against his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears at an increased rate and he swallowed hard. _Why is it always me?_ He half begged, half wondered. It might have seemed selfish at a time like this, but he couldn't help feeling utterly sorry for himself. Life wasn't fair, at least not where he was concerned. Even his new shirt had been ruined!

"I said drop it!" Stiles shouted again, pushing harder on the muzzle. Face knew it was going to leave a bruise.

Looking up, an indelible pout forming on his lips, his heart in his mouth, he met Murdock's distressed gaze. Tipping his head cautiously Face nodded, letting his friend know it was best to obey. Understanding the message, Murdock returned the nod and sank back down to set the rifle easily on the floor. His eyes never left Stiles or the gun. Standing up, he lifted his hands in a nonthreatening posture and kicked the weapon away with one foot.

Stiletto smiled triumphantly at the submission. Stepping forward, he took the opportunity to drive his fist into Murdock's unprotected stomach. Issuing a strangled cry, Murdock doubled over in pain. His hands clasping his midsection. Much to Stiletto's pleasure, he groaned, trying to catch his breath. Face tensed in anger, suppressing the urge to break free of Stiles and help. He reminded himself of the pistol pressed to the breast pocket on his dress shirt, and tried to keep his emotions in check. The last thing he wanted was to do something he'd regret. Despite the odds, Face knew the fight wasn't over yet.

Stiletto waited till Murdock had straightened to his full six-foot-one height, before reaching out and grabbing a fistful of open jacket, jerking him closer. "Let's try something different," Stiletto growled in Murdock's left ear, "How about _you_ answer my questions or…" He gestured with his head toward Face, "He's gonna die."

Face was released on cue, his stiff body thrust harshly forward in emphasis. With both hands free, Stiles supported the Beretta, leveling the gun higher. Bristling, Face kept himself in check, fully aware of the muzzle now pointed at the side of his head. Staring at the floor, he clenched his fists to stop them from shaking with anger. A heavy dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew the psychological edge Stiletto presently held over Murdock. After all, it was harder to watch your friends suffer than it was to endure pain yourself.

Lifting his chin Face studied Murdock, looking for a reaction. What he saw instead, made his heart beat faster. Murdock's face was completely locked in concentration; a deep frown creased his brow, overshadowed by his hat brim. He was staring straight ahead, but one look into the pilot's dark eyes revealed he was miles away. Whatever it was Murdock was seeing, it wasn't him, it wasn't the bay, and it certainly wasn't the guns surrounding them.

_Not now Murdock!_ Face wanted to shout, his worst fears confirmed. He'd been fretting about this moment since the Captain Cab persona several months back. He'd even had nightmares. It was the moment, between life and death, where Murdock's brain completely flaked out leaving him high and dry –and dead. He remembered expressing his worry to Hannibal, only to be refuted with, _'I'd risk my life with Murdock any day. He's solid. He's just a little different.'_

_Just a little different?_ Face gritted his teeth at the thought. _He's completely flipped!_ Desperate, he ignored his better judgment and opened his mouth, "Murdock!" He cried, hoping to return his friend to reality.

Stiles kicked him cruelly in the leg for his trouble, sending him to both knees with a grunt of protest. Face felt the muzzle of the Beretta set against the back of his skull. He held his breath, waiting for the fatal end.

"He's gonna die." Stiletto repeated, seeing the silence as a refusal to cooperate.

"Not. This. Time." Murdock replied, his gaze hard but clear. Drawing the hidden .45 from behind his back, he lifted the weapon in one quick motion. Without so much as a blink, he fired point-blank.

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	8. P For Popular

**P For Popular**

"_He's gonna die, isn't he?"_

_Darkness had finally fallen, bringing with it an intensely bright moon. Murdock stood in front of the Huey, one hand in his pocket. Connolly stood facing him, leaning back against the chopper nose arms folded. He watched her dip her head at his question, looking away. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind one ear, she bit her lower lip considering an answer. _

_After a pause, Connolly glanced back up looking him straight in the face. "It's not good Murdock. He's got a sucking chest wound. Pots is literally breathing through the hole in his side, and the more air he takes in, the more the pressure causes his lung to collapse—"_

"_I, I know what it is." Murdock interrupted her, feeling his head begin to spin again. _

_Connolly blinked in concern at the bitterness in his voice. Her smooth brow furrowed. "Well, I've applied an occlusive patch using the plastic from the dressing packages and some tape," she continued softly, "but it won't hold for long. He could really do with a chest tube insertion, but I've nothing to work with. If we don't get him back soon—" _

"_Stop it!" Murdock snapped, a rush of heat creeping up his neck. "What do you care if he dies? He's just another in a long line of faceless GI's for you, isn't he?"_

_He watched her eyes widen in shock and immediately regretted his outburst. "I'm…I'm sorry." He stammered. Lifting his good hand, he edged up the brim of his blue cap to rub his forehead in agitation. "I just…" he faded off, his throat constricting. _

_Murdock kept his eyes closed, struggling for composure. He didn't open them again, until he felt Connolly touch his elbow._

"_It'll be fine H.M., Pots never gives up easy. He always has an ace up his sleeve." She said with a wry smile, conjuring memories of late night poker games in the Officers Club. If Pots was there, no one ever won. Slipping her arm around his waist, she gave him an awkward hug. "Help is coming."_

Help is coming…_ Murdock couldn't help feeling he wouldn't bet his life's savings on that statement. While it was true Stevens had managed to jerry rig the damaged radio, long enough to relay a distress message by way of an infantry division within shortwave range, it didn't mean help would arrive in time. Murdock knew, as did Connolly, that even if the 29th had dispatched a helicopter immediately after the division had called in their general coordinates, the rescue, plus a return trip, would double the time of a normal Dustoff run. It would take time that the wounded they carried could not afford to lose. _

_Time Daryl didn't have._

_Reaching around Connolly's shoulders, Murdock draped his good arm about her. Drawing her into his chest for comfort, he responded to her hug. He felt her rest against him and realized just how hard this must have been for her as well. After all, she was a trained medic watching a friend die. He couldn't imagine what it was like, knowing how to save someone but being unable to do so._

"_You done good Ter," he managed at last, wanting to help her. Connolly shifted, lifting her hand to scratch at the dried blood on her chin. _

"_Yeah, sure." She muttered unconvincingly. _

_Just then, Stevens appeared from the direction of the open cabin. The dull glow from the MX anglehead flashlight tucked in his vest, bobbed up and down with his long stride. _

"_Terry, White is awake." He said, pausing to let the two separate. "And he's asking to talk to the idiot who wrecked his chopper. His words, not mine." _

_For the first time since that afternoon, Murdock smiled. Connolly also let out a small chuckle as she wiped stray tears from her eyes. _

"_Go on," she sniffed, nodding in the direction of the Huey. "I'll catch up."_

_Murdock didn't need to be told twice. Tramping over the flattened grass, he made his way toward the helicopters rear compartment –dimly lit by a second flashlight. Climbing carefully into the cabin on his knees, he tried to avoid jarring his aching shoulder._

_Daryl watched him from his place near the bulkhead. His head was cushioned on his folded jacket and a faint grin slipped across his pale, graying, face. "Hey man, you're as graceful on legs as you are at landings." He struggled to speak, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper._

"_You're just lucky we landed," Murdock grunted, squeezing in between Daryl and a second stretcher. The other two wounded soldiers appeared to be sleeping, no doubt zonked on whatever Connolly had administered to calm them. Setting his back to the metal wall, he drew his stiff legs to his chest and faced the cockpit. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, Murdock glanced down at the man beside him._

_For a long moment they simply regarded each other carefully, neither seemed sure of what to say. Several insects, attracted by the light of the upright MX, fluttered in the flashlight beam casting irregular shadows on their faces. A cool night breeze swept through the open cabin, bringing with it the faint scent of excess jet fuel leftover from the chopper crash. _

_Finally, Murdock found his voice, "Uh, Connolly said you're, uh, gonna be okay Pots—"_

"_Bullshit." Daryl replied, drawing a wheezing breath. His chest expanded against the ties of the field bandage holding the plastic patch in place. "I'm gonna die, aren't I H.M.?" He asked abruptly, his expression completely serious._

_Murdock felt like he'd been kicked in the gut, "Pots—"_

"_Murdock."_

"_Come on! No, you're not. You're—"_

"_Murdock."_

"_Dammit, Pots!" Murdock gritted out between clenched teeth. Yanking the hat off his head he threw it against the back of the pilot's seat in frustration. "Don't make me say it. There's still a chance."_

"_Yeah, right, and high card beats four of a kind." Daryl said drily. "I know my odds H.M. and they're not good."_

_Murdock shook his head silently and studied his boots. Tears dampened the corners of his eyes but he refused to let them fall. "Well, I haven't given up on you yet." He mumbled at last, fiddling with his sling. _

_Once more the two fell quiet, listening to the rhythm of Connolly and Stevens conversing outside in low murmurs. Their voices, mixed with the heavy breathing of the other soldiers, and the cadence of nighttime insects, reminded Murdock of group camping as a boy. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine lying awake in a canvas tent with other Scouts his own age, listening to the sounds around him. Oh, how he wished to be eleven years old again, simply out to earn a merit badge somewhere in the woods outside of Clarksville, Tennessee. Instead, he was now half a world away lost in a war no one knew why they were fighting. _

"_You know," Daryl began after the lengthy pause. His fingers twitched around the dog tags in his hand. Murdock assumed Stevens must have given them to him to hold, for the sake of his wedding ring. "My father was in W.W. two and he used to joke that the P on his old tags stood for "popular". He grew up Protestant, but he never took religion seriously. I mean, he did believe in God, he just never thought he needed him. And I grew up, sort of thinkin' the same thing…"_

_Murdock glanced over, wondering uneasily where the conversation was going. He could tell it was getting harder for his friend to talk. "So? I never thought much about it either." He admitted._

"_So," Daryl winced, squeezing his eyes shut in wave of pain. Once it had receded, he opened them again, "What if we're wrong?" _

_Murdock cocked his head questioningly. _

"_I mean look at J.J., man. He's got God and he's solid." Daryl continued, clenching the dog tags in his hand. "I, I've always relied on luck my whole life and it seemed to work, but now…now I don't think it's gonna save me this time."_

"_Save you?" Murdock frowned. "What? Are we talking about Heaven here? Because you aren't gonna die Pots."_

"_Murdock." Daryl reprimanded him softly, forcing him to face the gravity of the conversation._

_Adjusting his position uncomfortably, Murdock swallowed passed the lump in his throat. "My Grandmother, Emma –Emma Jane, once told me: 'it's better to believe in something and find out it isn't true, than not to believe and find out it is.' So, I guess it's really a matter of what you care to believe in. And if we're talking about life after death, I can't help."_

_Daryl closed his eyes. He was slipping back to sleep again, "I grew up believing H.M. My problem is, I never accepted that there might be only one way to get there…" _

"Murdock!"

Face's cry of desperation yanked Murdock back from 1971 with all the delicacy of a jackhammer. The transition was everything but gentle. He felt dazed and sick all at once, his mind reeling from the many emotions still boiling around inside him. Taking an involuntary breath, he tried to work out where he was. Then, the sight of Stiles forcing Face to his knees brought it rushing back to him.

He remembered his friend, he remembered the bay, and he remembered the guns surrounding them.

The heavy click of the Beretta cocking also reminded Murdock of what little time they both had left.

_Dammit, Pots. _He thought. _Why is there never enough time left?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Wow, first off I'd like to apologize for the delay in updating. The summer suddenly picked up and I couldn't find the time to write properly. Hopefully it won't happen again. Second, I'd like to thank everyone for the wonderful reviews you've all left. Thanks for taking the time to R&amp;R.<strong>

***I'd also like to note why I chose Clarksville, Tennessee for Murdock. Firstly, it's because I wanted a southern state but not one as obvious as Texas. Secondly, Clarksville is a very old city and I felt Murdock would have appreciated growing up there. And finally, because it's near Fort Campbell home of the 101st Airborn Division which might have been a reason why Murdock became a pilot.***

**TBC, Thanks for reading!**


	9. When Time Stops

**When Time Stops**

What is _time_?

For the first three months after having been committed to the VA, Murdock had found himself asking that question every day. In fact, he hadn't just asked himself, he'd asked everyone he'd met –including doctors, nurses, orderlies, and potted plants. He'd even asked a few patients too, but unfortunately for him, most of the inmates in his wing had been less intelligent than the plants.

Adjusting to the schedule of the hospital had been difficult. Murdock had begun to question the meaning of _time _when he'd realized, inside the white walls and antiseptic floors, that his time was no longer his own. It had been a difficult concept for someone who had once commanded the skies on a whim. Sure he was a soldier, and soldiers were used to following orders, but having your life regulated by strangers was different. As a soldier you had a purpose, as a patient you were simply one in a long line of others unable to function as a whole. Instead of standing proudly in defense of one's beliefs, pride, and freedom, you were shuffled from hour to hour with set meals, activities, and appointments just like everyone else.

In such an isolated world, time had soon become little more than the next hour when his meds arrived. It had no significant meaning. Murdock often wondered if he were to die, what other poor sucker would simply be slipped in to take his place. If time cared not about individuality or freedom, and was only a set of rules to be followed, than what was the point of it all?

During one of his many therapy sessions and discussions on the matter, Dr. Richter had lent him the definition of _time_. Sitting in his white coat and striped tie, he'd read confidently from a worn copy of Oxfords own dictionary: 'the unlimited continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future'. Interestingly enough, Murdock had ended up finding more sense in a copy of _London Assurance_, in which the writer Dion Boucicault had said, "Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them."

Perhaps that was _time; _an invisible force, alive and unstoppable, whose chief end was to be broken down into little increments, counted up, and possessed, by people seeking control through numbered clocks and busy schedules. Only it can't be controlled. It simply moves through hours, minutes, and seconds taking life with it along an endless cycle of living and dying. Could time be stopped at will, one might actually get to appreciate life before it ran out.

On many occasions, Murdock had heard his fellow man wish to freeze time. Face sometimes expressed this sentiment after a good date and Hannibal after a particularly spectacular victory. Ironically, there were instances when time did stop. Not because of happiness, or the jazz, but because of extreme fear. Only once in Murdock's life, had he experienced such a phenomenon.

"He's gonna die." In the present, Stiletto's last words lingered heavily. With the crumbling warehouse surrounding them like a ruined amphitheater, Murdock watched Face kneeling on the cement. The worn Beretta pressed against the back of his friend's skull was an eerie reminder of past events. He knew from experience that time was running backwards for Face. Every second was ticking by like an eternity and insignificant, sporadic, thoughts were emerging in the jumble of 'what ifs' flooding through his mind.

Murdock knew what that was like.

A month after his assignment to the A-Team, during a covert mission for Morrison, he and the rest of the team had been shot down over Hanoi. Bailing out above a lake, they'd been captured on shore and trucked to _Hoa Lo _prison. Loosely translated, _Hoa Lo_ meant 'hell hole', but among the American POW's imprisoned there it was facetiously known as the 'Hanoi Hilton'.

It was the first time Murdock had ever been in the hands of the enemy.

Upon arrival, the team had found themselves occupying the Las Vegas section of the large prison, named so by the pilots who had trained in Nellis. Face hadn't understood the joke, but Murdock had. Unfortunately, naming buildings and cellblocks after casinos and hotels hardly helped to alter the harsh reality of hell on earth; a hell that was to be their home for three months and four days, before they'd managed an escape.

Murdock met Face's imploring stare, reading the panic behind the intense blue eyes. Behind the lieutenant, Stiles stood ready. His finger tapped the side of the trigger in anticipation. Murdock felt his own chest tighten; he'd had a gun pointed at his head in such fashion as well. Just the thought of it made his scalp tingle.

The sun had been excessively bright that day, so many years ago. He remembered because he'd been afraid, more afraid than he'd ever been—even more so than the day he'd landed the damaged Huey—and his fear had etched the moment vividly into his memory forever. Without closing his eyes Murdock could still recall the contrast of morning sunlight, versus the stark shadows cast by the yellow south wall of the _Hoa Lo_ prison.

Like Face, he too had been forced down on his knees. Across his lap, he'd gripped a wooden shovel in sore hands as he'd faced the pit he'd dug with it. Around him, men in chains, fellow allies, had been lined up to watch. With him, three other prisoners had also knelt; two on his right and one on his left. All four sat waiting, unaware they'd dug their own graves.

Murdock could still hear the guttural voice of the camp officer calling out, "_O day la thanh toan cho cac dich vu cua ban!_" as a guard moved to place the crude muzzle of a 9mm, single shot, pistol to the back of his head. On either side of him, three more uniformed men did the same with the other prisoners. His Vietnamese had been lacking, but despite the fact he'd managed to decipher the harsh phrase anyway.

"Here is the payment for your services!" The officer had said, before signaling with a hand.

It'd taken Murdock a second to comprehend what was happening, but by the first hollow 'clap' of a hammer falling, his world had slowed to a crawl. Time seemed to have stopped completely, his brain and body reacting to the horror of his situation with a burst of adrenaline driven fear. Twice on his right he'd heard the sound –drawn out impossibly long. The muffled _pop_, _pop_, punctuated the buzzing in his mind as the firing pins struck cartridge and the bullets cleared their barrels in succession.

One after the other, the two kneeling men had crumpled and fell. Murdock heard the dull thud when their bodies finally struck the dirt; he'd refused to flinch let alone turn to look. His heartbeat had pounded in his ears, and sweat rolled down his forehead stinging his eyes. Several prisoners had shouted out obscenities in angered protest, but the rest simply stood unresponsive.

He could remember looking up desperately, hoping for a reprieve that wasn't there. In doing so, he'd caught sight of Hannibal standing silently across from him. The Colonel stood in chains, his mouth pulled into a thin line and an inscrutable expression on his face. Murdock had shared his commander's glance, seeing in his eyes a deep regret. In that instant he'd known there was nothing he could have expected from the man. This had not been part of their plan, and there was none in play to save him.

Then it was his turn. Murdock had felt the gun at the back of his skull tilt, just before his head had been forcefully shoved downward. His breaths had shortened with anticipation, the sound explosively loud and matched only by the steady thrum of his heart. He'd listened intently for the click of the pistol cocking; the action seemed to take forever and he'd squeezed his eyes shut in agony, expecting the end. Then a shot was fired.

Murdock recalled the sudden flood of disbelief which rushed through him as the man on his left tumbled down dead. The realization he'd remained alive broke the spell, and time resumed as normal in a whirl of nauseous feelings and confusion. Before he could fully grasp what had happened, he'd been dragged upright and forced back into line with the other prisoners.

With his legs barely able to support him, Murdock had been paraded passed the four graves, three of them now occupied. He could still remember what the guard nearest him had said, the words made even more poignant by his broken English, "That could be you."

_That could be you._ Murdock had realized in that instant, why he'd been spared. They'd pushed him straight to the edge, making him think he was to die, and then they'd pulled him back again in an exhibition of power. Every day after, throughout the duration of his imprisonment, he'd lived with a constant fear that the next time it would be him.

_He's gonna die._ Stiletto's growl, echoed around inside his head and a familiar anger rose in Murdock. If there was one thing he'd taken away from his torture in _Hoa Lo_, it was the memory of near death. He'd discovered what it was like to see and feel your life drawing to a close, and be helpless to stop it. He'd often wondered during his stints in isolation at the Hilton—sitting alone in a six foot by six foot cell, with blacked out windows, and his ankles shackled to the floor—if Daryl had felt similarly during his last hours.

Letting out an unsteady breath, Murdock blinked back the tide of mixed feelings swelling around inside of him. Suddenly he was very conscious of the hidden .45 pressed into the small of his back. It was then that everything began to make sense.

Stiletto leaned close, his patience wearing thin. "He's gonna die." He repeated, fully prepared to execute whoever to get what he wanted.

Murdock tensed; there was not a chance in hell he was going to let someone else make that decision again. He'd suffered through the knowledge his life was little more than a card trick to some, and Daryl had lost his life because someone else had fired a bullet. There was no way he was going to let Face fall victim too. It was his turn to control the outcome.

Without thinking further, Murdock seized the advantage. Surprise on his side, he swung his hand behind his back and yanked the pistol free from under his A-2. Leveling the weapon, he picked his target.

"Not. This. Time." He said and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, Thanks for reading!<strong>


	10. Who is Justice?

**Who is Justice?**

Face saw Murdock go for the gun. Actually, at first glance, he didn't know it was a gun he was going for, but the swiftness of the action had warned him to be ready. Whatever it was.

The moment the chrome .45 appeared from under Murdock's jacket, Face did the only thing he could think of…

He ducked.

Hitting the cement front first, a split second ahead of the shot, Face covered his head with his arms and held his breath. Above him the hot bullet flew high, catching a bewildered Stiles in the left shoulder. Stunned, the man took a step backward. A strangled cry of pain tangled in his throat. The handgun struck the floor as he released it, discharging with bang.

Face jumped in his skin as the gun went off beside him. The round hit an old crate ten feet away in an explosion of dry wood and dust. For a brief second he pondered how close he'd come to the same result, but then shoved the disturbing thought aside for later.

"Everybody FREEZE!" Murdock shouted his voice strong and steady. Glancing up, Face saw to his surprise and relief that Murdock now held Stiletto securely by an arm. The .45 angled sharply over the enforcer's heart.

Ah, irony.

"I've got five rounds left," Murdock was speaking again over the pathetic moans of a wounded Stiles, now rolling on the floor. "And if anyone so much as_ blinks_, it's Boothill for Black Magic here." He punctuated his words by shoving the muzzle hard against Stiletto's chest. The enforcer's raised hands lifted a little higher in reflex.

On the far left, one of the guards seemed intent on testing the validity of the threat. Face caught the movement of an UZI lifting. His gaze darted back to Murdock. The pilot's head was turned, the guard beyond his line of sight.

_Oh, craps. _

Instinctually, Face rolled over. Quick as a flash, he grabbed for the fallen Beretta.

"Murdock! Ten o'clock!" He yelled, his hands claiming the gun. Spread on his stomach, Face pointed and fired. A second later, the hulking guard dropped the UZI with a clatter, stumbling sideways into a fellow soldier –a through-and-through to the thigh.

Face let his shoulders sag in relief. He felt semi-proud he'd actually managed to hit his target, but at the same time he knew it was another close call. Every fiber of his being was itching for an escape, before their luck finally ran out.

Angered, Murdock lifted the pistol and jammed the muzzle up under Stiletto's jaw. "Do you want me to demonstrate how serious I am?" He growled in the enforcer's ear, "Or are ya gonna call off your oversized Pekinese pals, huh?"

"You won't kill me." Stiletto said, his false confidence betrayed by his splayed hands. "You need me."

Murdock snorted, unimpressed. "Face," he jerked his head toward the Ruger on the floor. Face obediently climbed to his feet. Once steady, he moved to retrieve the weapon. Tucking the Beretta into his belt, beneath his disheveled shirt, he positioned the rifle near the hip and primed the breech. Backing up, he placed himself beside Murdock. Wired, Face listed up on the balls of his feet –ready and waiting.

He sincerely hoped there was a plan.

"Listen, you're nothin' but a Red Pole." Murdock said, referencing the enforcer's position in the great Triad pyramid. Turning the .45 downward, he shot at the floor between Stiletto's boots. The bullet ricocheted away. Face winced involuntarily at the memory. "_That's_ how much I need you."

Stiletto's fingers twitched, unnerved by his own method. After a hesitation, he acquiesced angrily. "_Xiatai!_" He called out through clenched teeth, "_Xiatai!_"

As before, the guards did as requested lowering their imported weapons.

Pulling Stiletto with him, Murdock began to walk backwards –the .45 finding its way down to the enforcer's kidneys. "Very good Johnny Boy, now tell them not to follow us. I'll know if you don't." He ordered, directing Face to the freight elevator with a quick hand signal.

_So that's how he got in,_ Face thought in silent approval. His gaze flicked edgily back and forth and he walked carefully between the scattered flats, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. Reaching the shaft, he shifted the Ruger to one hand and bent to haul the old gate all the way up.

"_Jianchi xialai, bu zunxun w__o__men!_" Stiletto's voice echoed around the bay over the squeak of the gate wheels. No one moved. Apparently two wounded men in their midst was convincing enough.

Satisfied the directive would be obeyed, at least for the moment, Murdock dragged the resistant hostage to the elevator. Face slung the rifle over his shoulders and leapt off the platform. Catching hold of the cables midair, he ignored the pain in his sore limbs, and managed to shimmy his way to the floor below.

Letting go, he dropped a foot and found himself in a damp basement. Rubbing his skinned palms on his pants, Face straightened and loosed the Ruger from his back. Glancing upward, he saw Stiletto sliding down towards him. Leveling the rifle, he kept the man in his crosshairs until he touched the floor.

"Hands where I can see them," Face demanded, motioning with the rifle. Stiletto did as commanded, serving him a nasty glare.

Face felt his hostilities rising. Again. "Hey pal, this is not my fault –you should've skipped town when we gave you the chance. Now," He grinned darkly, "we're gonna bury you in it."

"Go to hell." Stiletto snapped.

"Save me a spot when you get there." Face retorted.

Above them Murdock dangled from the cables, his feet locked in place for support. Lifting the .45 he fired two rounds into the pulley system holding up the gate. The rope snapped as did the wheel.

_Crack! _The old wood gate crashed shut, shivering in place after hitting the cement.

"_Arrivederci!_" Murdock called into the loading bay. A moment later, he rejoined Face and Stiletto on the ground.

"Move it." He ordered. Grabbing the enforcer by the back of the neck, he gave him a push keeping the gun aimed low. Picking up the pace, the three made their way across the basement toward the broken window.

Murdock climbed out first. Face covered Stiletto from behind, forcing him to go next.

Once again in the alley on the far side of the warehouse, Murdock stood up and passed the .45 to his other hand. Turning around, he bent and grabbed an emerging Stiletto by the back of the shirt. "Alright jackass, get over here." He said, yanking the enforcer out of the window and dragging him away.

Face hopped up on the machine table after them. Tossing the Ruger through first, he avoided the broken glass and placed his palms on the wooden frame. With a grunt he hauled his aching body up on his belly, rolling ungracefully out into the alley.

Grasping the rifle, Face straightened on stiff legs and glanced toward the road. In the distance, a faint whine of sirens began.

"Sounds like Hannibal's called the cops, let's get outta here." He said.

Murdock ignored him. Sliding out the magazine of the .45, he checked his remaining cartridges. Face heard the 'click' of the clip returning to the well, and looked back.

"Come on; knock him out so we can split." He urged again, taking a step toward the road and freedom.

"Yeah, just one more thing..." Murdock muttered distractedly and gave Stiletto a hearty shove from behind.

Face halted, watching the enforcer fall heavily on all fours. "_Bun tyen-shung duh ee-dway-ro!_" Stiletto cursed at the pavement, biting out his insult in a desperate attempt to remain in control.

"_Bizui!_" Murdock shot back in disgust. Holding up the chrome .45, he forcefully pulled on the slide chambering a round.

"Whoa, Murdock," Face said, feeling suddenly uneasy. "Hey, what's the deal?" He asked cautiously.

"What's the deal?" Murdock repeated. Leaning down, he grabbed the back of Stiletto's shirt again, "Get up here…" He growled, jerking the man upright on his knees. "The deal _is…_this pitfall of humanity." He said, grasping the gun with both hands.

A claxon of warning bells went off in Face's head. He could tell something wasn't right. "Murdock, leave him. Hannibal's waiting." He said, trying to retain focus on the rest of the mission. The sirens were still far away, but the last thing he wanted was to be bagged by the LAPD. "Come on, the cops are on their way, they'll deal with him. Let the pits fall where they may, okay?" His attempt at humor fell flat.

"No." Murdock said bluntly, lowering his gun.

Face felt his stomach clench. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the muzzle touch the back of Stiletto's head. The enforcer froze.

"What the hell are you doing?" Face almost shouted in disbelief.

"What I've gotta do Faceman." Murdock replied quietly, cocking the hammer. He sounded almost childlike.

Chills raced along Face's spine. Taking a step forward, he shook his head. "Murdock, whatever it is you think you have to do –don't."

"Face," Murdock's tone changed from soft to serious. "Stay out of this, you don't understand—"

"Don't understand?" Face cried, "I understand murder when I see it!"

"It's justice, Faceman. They have to pay for what they've done."

_They?_ Face frowned, confused. The Triad hadn't pushed them _that_ hard? Then the image of Stiletto on his knees, along with the glazed look on Murdock's face, brought a rush of clarity. He remembered _Hoa Lo, _and his heart leapt into his throat.

"Murdock, this is not Nam. He is not the enemy—!"

"He's just like them—"

"No, no! He's not! He's an Imperial ass, and I hate him too, but he's not Charlie!"

Shaking his head in disagreement, Murdock tilted the .45 upward forcing Stiletto's head downward. The enforcer's chest rose and fell in short, heavy, breaths. He held his hands away from his body, clenching them into fists. Face could see sweat trickling down his temple.

Desperate, Face lifted the Ruger on impulse. It took every ounce of will he had to aim the muzzle at his friend. "I won't let you kill him." He said.

The sirens were growing closer.

Murdock knew the rifle was trained on him, "Why not?" He asked without looking up.

"Because, you're not a killer."

"No, I'm insane—"

"No. You're a good man." Face countered without missing a beat. "And you're a soldier. You can't do _this_. It's not right, and you know it…Captain."

For a second, Murdock seemed to doubt his resolve. His hand wavered and the gun lowered. Then his expression darkened and he resumed his control over Stiletto.

"You're wrong." He gritted out, drawing a deep breath. "I saw my best friend suffer because of men like him, and I couldn't stop it." His eyes were locked on target, his entire body tense with anger. "I know what it feels like to die –what it felt like for him. Dammit, Face! I see it! I can feel it! And I can't let that go, not until they know too. I've just gotta do this…" His voice cracked, fading away.

Face watched, his guts twisting, as hot tears began to dampen Murdock's dirty cheeks. He too understood the feelings roiling around inside the pilot. So many times he'd wished for a chance to vanguard his own justice –to hunt down and kill every one of the Viet Cong bastards that had ever did harm to the friends he'd seen die.

But at the end of the day, no matter the reasons, it was still murder.

Face tightened his grip on the rifle, "Murdock, please." He begged his voice thickening.

There was a screech of tires. The first police car had arrived on the scene.

Murdock looked up, pained –his gaze fogged with tears. "I'm sorry Faceman." He whispered.

A peaceful smile lifted the corners of his cracked lips and without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, Thanks!<strong>


	11. Five Bullets Minus One

**Five Bullets Minus One**

Amy set her head back against the driver side seat with a heavy sigh. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel nervously. She would have been biting her nails, if she had any nails left to bite. It had been five minutes since she called the cops with an anonymous tip, as per Hannibal's orders, and there was still no sign of Murdock or Face.

She sincerely hoped they'd make it out.

Picking up her notepad for the millionth time, Amy flipped to the page devoted to her observations of Murdock. Scanning down the list of adjectives and thoughts hastily written between the blue lines, she stopped at her most recent scribble. Using her stubby pencil, she individually underlined each of the letters in turn –P, T, S, D. Studying the acronym thoughtfully, she then decided to write the words out in full: post traumatic stress disorder.

Circling the sentence Amy dropped her hands, and the notepad, to her lap. For some reason, she never thought to relate such a condition to Murdock. After all, it had been more than ten years since Vietnam, and up until now, his myriad of other disorders had always been benign at best. Sure, he had been declared insane and committed to the care of the state in a military hearing, but he never seemed affected by it. In fact, he always appeared to love being titled 'crazy'. It gave him an angle. One he worked well. It was hard to believe that the sort of things which had put him in the VA were most likely violent in nature. She never stopped to think, that maybe, underneath his goofy smiles, wisecracks, and sock puppets there lurked events and memories he never had been able to deal with. Memories locked away in the depths, in order to nullify the pain they caused. Until something brought those memories back to the surface –something as harmless as a question.

Amy felt terrible. At first, when he turned on her in the alley, she had been upset, but now she felt nothing but pity. The thought of Murdock's eyes, with all the fear, anger, and guilt she had seen there, made her heart hurt. The idea that he tried to tell her his story, thinking he could handle it, also frightened her. Not because he couldn't handle it, but because he hadn't. She had only heard the beginning of January 1971, but she already knew how it would go: a friend in danger –a friend who died. What made it worse was Murdock had headed into a situation with potentially the same result –a situation where a clear head and sound judgment was needed, not flashbacks and guilt.

She checked the road again. It was still empty. Just then Amy heard the distinct _whoop_, _whoop_ of sirens approaching, and her stomach clenched with worry. Never had she been on a mission where she hadn't trusted every one of the team implicitly. But right now, she couldn't trust Murdock. And she doubted he could trust himself. To top it all off, the imminent arrival of the LAPD meant they were running out of time.

Glancing in her driver side mirror, she could barely see the end of the alley behind the van. If the cops arrived before Face and Murdock, she was going to have to back out into the next block in order to escape. Normally the idea of backing B.A.'s van out practically blind would have made her a nervous wreck, but for the moment her jazz was excruciatingly high. Until it wore off, nothing was insurmountable.

As if to test her heightened abilities, the first police car arrived on the scene. Although she couldn't see it, Amy could hear the harsh grind of tires sliding on gravel. Sitting up a little straighter, her eyes forward, she grasped the keys dangling in the ignition. The engine growled to life, muffled by the blare of oncoming sirens.

"Come on guys." She urged out loud, nearly bobbing in her seat. Amy wasn't certain how long she should wait, but the longer she did, the greater her risk of discovery became. Not to mention, she still needed to pick up Hannibal and B.A. The two of them were somewhere several blocks away, having drawn out a majority of the Triad guards in order to give Murdock and Face a chance.

She prayed that chance hadn't been wasted.

Releasing the parking brake, she looked in her mirror again. This time a flash of movement from behind caught her eye. Something hit the back of the van with a _thud_ and Amy felt her heart skip a beat. Tossing her notepad over her shoulder, she grabbed for the Sig Saur on the seat beside her –highly alert. Holding it up she checked to see if the safety was off, her mind considering all possibilities. She sincerely hoped what she had seen and heard was only the boys returning, but she couldn't ignore the odd chance it wasn't.

Deciding to retain an advantage, Amy slowly opened the door. Despite the giddy fear knotting in her stomach, the cool strength of the gun in her hands, along with the jazz, meshed to give her a heady rush of confidence. Armed and ready, she slipped from the seat. Placing her back to the van, she edged her way along the red stripe toward the rear.

As Amy closed in on the corner of the taillight, she could hear heavy breathing. Her grip tightened on the gun. Reaching the back tire, she paused, counted to three, and leapt out into the open.

Her initial bravado culminated in a squeak of surprise as she ran smack into Face.

"Whoa, Amy…ow," Face gasped. He doubled over in pain, but not before fumbling to snatch the offending Sig Saur from her hands. Amy soon realized his whimpering was due to her weight on his foot. She quickly stepped off, her heart racing.

"Thank _goodness_ it's you two," She said, catching Murdock out of the corner of her eye. She felt thoroughly relieved to see the both of them.

Straightening with a soft groan, Face laid a hand on her shoulder for support. "If this is how you greet us, I'd hate to be the other guys."

Amy's brow lifted at the sight of him. Cuts, bruises, blood. Even his hair was tussled, every one out of place. "Oh my…Face, are you alright?" She exclaimed, reaching out curiously toward an abrasion near his left eyebrow.

"Hey, don't touch." He whined.

Murdock stepped forward edgily, "We gotta go." He said. Squeezing past them, he hauled open the nearest rollback door on the van and climbed inside.

Face tried to move Amy, giving her a gentle push. "Drive _mon amie. _While I sit and ponder the death of our facial calling card."

But Amy didn't budge. "Are you guys _really_ alright?" She asked in concern.

"Yes, we're fine. It all went smooth as silk." Face replied without hesitation. The pros to being a conman was you lied well, even to friends. Naturally, Amy took his answer as the truth. When she turned around there was a bounce in her step. Something about his words seemed to have unburdened her.

If only he felt that way. Face thought of Murdock.

Taking a step forward he added under his breath, "At least some of us are…"

_Sitting outside the OR at the 29th, perched atop a sandbag wall, left arm in a sling, Murdock took another drag on his cigarette. He coughed lightly as he exhaled slowly, holding what was left of the rolled paper and weed between thumb and forefinger. Studying the glowing tip, he tapped the embers free and watched the ash fall to the dirt. _

_Sniffing, he rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. The light from the incandescent bulb over the OR doors behind him stretched his shadow out to join the rest of the darkness. Night was still in full swing. A breeze blew through the compound, sweeping up the flag standing at the heart of it. Murdock watched the dark shape of the proverbial red, white, and blue flutter against the moon. He lifted the cigarette again, giving the flag a nod. _

_A truck drove by._

_It'd been five solid hours since their rescue. The moment the UH-1 had landed; several orderlies and a doctor had swarmed in claiming the wounded. Connolly had gone with Daryl, while he had been shuffled to an empty pre-op ward. There he endured an examination. When it was determined no bones had been damaged, he received stitches, a clean bandage, and fresh fatigues. He had a short argument with a nurse about bed rest and observation, but once he agreed to a compromise, he had been free to wander for a time. _

_From there, he went to the Officer's Club on base. He had a drink or two, but the raw liquid had done little to ease the anger, pain, and fear rolling around in his stomach. All he could do was think about Pots. Every time he closed his eyes, he imaged him lying on an operating table –dying. It killed him to think his best friend's life was now in the hands of men and women he hardly knew._

_After leaving the club, Murdock had run into a Staff Sergeant who seemed to recognize the hollow agitation he was exhibiting. It had been from him, that he had gotten the cigarette. He never smoked before, maybe once in high school as an experiment, but given the way he felt it seemed like a fair idea now. The Sergeant had assured him it was the good kind of cigarette too, not the kind the Marlboro Man had a habit of endorsing._

_Since then he'd been sitting outside the OR…waiting. _

_The plywood doors to the metal building behind him, swung open on stiff hinges. The sound of footsteps broke into his thoughts. A second long shadow joined his, moving slowly towards him with a squash-n-stretch effect. Murdock's head lifted anxiously. Twisting in his seat on the wall, he glanced over his shoulder to see who it was –hoping for news. _

_Behind him, he found Connolly. She emerged from the double doors, pulling a cloth cap off her head. Her bun was mussed, and she instinctively smoothed her hair back with one quick sweep of a hand. When the doors shut, she looked up and met his gaze. At the sight of him, she halted._

"_Captain—" The medic stopped, unprepared. She had exchanged her flight suit for a white medical gown. The front of which was stained with blood. A mask hung loosely around her neck, and in the crook of one arm she clutched a folded A-2 against her chest. She looked exhausted. The muddled light aged her pretty face several years._

_Something in her tired eyes twisted Murdock's insides. _

_Immediately, he knew. _

"_Sh—" He slurred. Looking away, he fought to control the sudden tide of emotions. _

"_I'm sorry—" Connolly started. He cut her off with a wave of his hand. _

_Tugging at the cigarette again, Murdock inhaled deeper. He didn't want to hear it. He couldn't hear it. Even if he already knew…Daryl was dead. _

_Connolly didn't seem satisfied to let it lie. "I'm sorry H.M.," She said, watching his back, "They tried, but there were—"_

"_Stop," he said softly._

"—_there were complications." She ignored him. "There was shrapnel behind the heart. He went into cardiac arrest—"_

"_Stop it." His voice hardened._

"—_they couldn't resuscitate him. He's gone."_

_Standing up in a rush of anger, Murdock spun around to face her. "I said stop it, dammit!"_

"_No, I won't." She said calmly, "You need to hear this, Captain."_

"_No, I don't!" He snapped._

"_Yes. You do." Connolly said, unfazed by his outbursts._

_Gritting his teeth, Murdock dipped his head to avoid her intense gaze. Instead, he studied the dirt on his boots –his own heart somewhere in the soles. His guts felt shredded. He had never been so sick in his life. Holding up the smoldering joint, Murdock half wondered if the cigarette was to blame. He'd been told it would make him forget his problems; instead the pain was intensifying. _

"_It should have been me Ter." He said quietly after a long pause, still staring down. His head was beginning to spin. The anger was settling into the pit of his stomach, bringing with it a wave of guilt. It made him nauseous. _

_Connolly closed her eyes briefly. "No, Murdock. It shouldn't have been anybody. It just happened."_

_Shaking his head, he kicked a sandbag, "Yeah, well, tell that to Claire and the kids."_

"_Maybe you should." Connolly said. "When we get back to the 32nd, I'm going to talk to the Red Cross and get you a hardship leave stateside." She stroked the leather jacket absentmindedly. _

_With a small snort of contempt, Murdock flicked the burnt joint into the dirt and crushed it with the heel of one boot. "Why?" _

"_Because," the medic stepped forward and held out the folded A-2. "Someone needs to bring him home, and I know Pots would want it to be you."_

_Hesitant, Murdock stared dully at the tiger motif partially visible between their shadows. A lump rose in his throat. He swallowed hard. _

"_I, I can't." He said hoarsely. "I…"_

_Connolly smiled sympathetically, "I think you need to." She said. Placing the jacket against his chest she held it there, rising up to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. Murdock blinked, his good hand wandered up to cover hers._

"_It's not your fault." Connolly whispered in his ear, before slipping her hand free. Patting his shoulder she walked away, leaving him to stand alone in the dark... _

"You're lucky the gun jammed."

Face studied the grey floor between his shoes, unable to look at the man sitting next to him. The rear of the van swayed around a turn and he mentally clocked it. So far they had taken two turns: a right, a left, and a left. He wondered where in the hell Hannibal and B.A. had finally ended up. It seemed only Amy knew.

"Mind your speed." He called upfront. The police were on alert. After all, a heavy drug bust was going down, and the last thing they needed was an overzealous cop pulling them over for suspicious driving.

Amy waved him off.

Beside Face, Murdock drew a deep breath. He appeared only half conscious of the world around him. Then, he seemed to realize he had been spoken to and turned to look.

"What?" He asked distractedly. It was evident his mind was elsewhere.

"I said: you're lucky the gun jammed." Face repeated, still unable to meet his gaze. He felt betrayed. Somehow, in those few moments in the alley, he had seen a whole other side to the pilot he never knew existed.

A side he wished he could forget.

To make matters worse, he couldn't help feeling angry regarding Murdock's scattered behavior. Sure, the pilot's day-to-day craziness was fun, and expected. But when the heat was on, Face needed to know he could trust each member of his unit to have his back. Today, Murdock's lapses had nearly gotten him killed.

How could you fully trust someone again after that?

Murdock could sense the resentment in Face. It upset him deeply. The last thing he ever meant to do was force a gap between them. What they both needed now was an explanation. Pushing his hat off his forehead, he twisted around and reached for the pistol lying on the box behind him. Picking it up, he turned back and ejected the clip.

"It didn't jam." Murdock said quietly. Holding out the .45 and the magazine together, he urged for them to be taken.

Face set his jaw stubbornly, wanting to ignore the gesture. After a brief hesitation, his curiosity got the better of him. Snatching the pieces away with a heavy sigh, he held them up judgmentally.

When he finally looked, Face found the clip empty. His brow lifted in surprise, before furrowing in confusion.

"But I don't—" He began, perplexed. Sitting back in the bucket seat, he thought harder. "Wait. You knew it was clear the whole time?"

Murdock nodded, folding his hands in his lap. "Yeah…yeah, I did."

Checking it again from both ends to be sure, Face shook his head, "In the bay you said you had five rounds left. You only fired four."

"I lied." Murdock said simply. "It was five minus one." Retrieving the pistol and magazine he slid the clip in, locking it in place. "It may surprise you Faceman, but sometimes…I actually do know what I'm doing."

Face winced, feeling oddly the heel. "So then…what was that stunt you pulled back there with ol' whatshisname?"

"Stiletto."

"Yeah, him."

"Well," Murdock shrugged, slightly evasive. "It's been botherin' me for years, just why they let _me_ go that day in _Hoa Lo_. You know, why not the other guy? I guess I felt indebted somehow. You see, they let me go. So I let him go. Now, we're even."

"But the gun wasn't loaded. You couldn't have killed him."

"_He_ didn't know that."

Face withdrew, tenderly running a hand over his aching jaw. After a pause he asked, "So that's it? That's all it was?"

For a moment, Murdock fell silent mulling it over. "No," He admitted at last. "It's part of it, but…I wanted to kill him Faceman. I really did. After what he tried to do to you, he deserved it. And I almost did too. In the bay for a second there, I almost pulled the trigger..."

"What stopped you?"

Murdock delved his hands into the pockets of his A-2, "I was wearing his jacket."

Face tilted his head, confused.

"I lost a friend in Nam. A best friend," Murdock explained. "When I wear this it sorta reminds me of him, ya know? It kinda keeps me accountable." His hands moved inside the jacket as he talked. "But when I saw you, well…I just didn't want to lose another one..."

Face was touched, "Oh, Murdock." Reaching out, he patted the pilot's gangly shoulder awkwardly, "Same here buddy."

"I always knew I couldn't kill that guy –not even for revenge." Murdock sighed, "Even though I wanted too. It's like you said, we're soldiers. There would have been no honor in it."

"Then why did you empty the clip?" Face asked curiously.

The van slowed to a stop beside a curb. Through the windshield, Hannibal and B.A. could be seen dashing across the street towards them. Amy opened the driver side door to relinquish the wheel.

Murdock smiled thinly, "I guess…it was just in case I could."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC! Thanks for all the support through this guys, it's meant alot. I've made up a little surprise for you all! If you want to see a picture of Pots &amp; Murdock together, just follow the link in my profile!<strong>


	12. Who is Daddy?

**Who is Daddy?**

'…_and thanks to an anonymous tip the Los Angeles Police Department made over two dozen arrests on Friday afternoon, during a drug bust in LA's warehouse district. The elusive narcotics ring—run by five time felon, Jack Stiles—was rumored to have ties with a Chinese gang known as the Black Dragons. _

_Yesterday the rumor was proven true, when thirty-six year old Hu Chen, an enforcer for the Black Dragons, was apprehended on site. Over ten thousand dollars worth of heroine was also found on premises. Chen and Stiles have been charged with illegal possession, extortion, and the first degree murder of eighteen year old Kyle Franco. Stiles has named Chen as co-conspirator in the murder—'_

Murdock switched off the TV, dissolving the pretty blonde news reporter mid sentence. It didn't matter though; he hadn't really liked her royal blue suit anyway. Dropping the remote on the mattress beside him, he returned his attention to the newest copy of _Fantastic Four _spread open on his lap. He had heard enough about Stiles, the Black Dragons, and Stiletto (or rather, Hu Chen) to last him a lifetime. Issue two hundred and sixty-seven was, for the moment, much more interesting.

Back in the VA again, it'd been almost a full day since the escape from the warehouse. Murdock could still hear Hannibal chuckling, "_I love it when a plan comes together_", around a spent cigar all the way to their client's home. The mission had wrapped itself up nice and neat once they had regrouped –with Hu Chen's arrest as an added bonus. When Face had relayed they had left the man unconscious in an alley for the police, the Colonel had been on cloud nine. Now with the imminent conviction for Franco's death, Murdock knew Hannibal would be completely satisfied for at least a week.

Flipping to the next page, he barely read the blurbs on the colored frames. As much as he wanted to know if Mr. Fantastic and Dr. Octopus would save Invisible Woman, Murdock just couldn't concentrate on the story. His head was still trying to catch up with the events of the past day, and despite the old adage 'all's well that ends well', he couldn't seem to shake it off. Things weren't back to normal –he wasn't even sure they ever would be. Face had graciously kept quiet about the incident in the bay and the alley, assuring him they were still solid friends. And since B.A. and Hannibal were none the wiser, Murdock knew there was only one other thing he needed to make right.

He needed to apologize to Amy.

Just then there was a soft tap at his door, "Mr. Murdock, visitor for you." A female voice said from somewhere beyond the white metal grill of room 104.

Murdock would have recognized the sound of Nurse Shannon anywhere. Her voice was as light and sweet as her person. A transfer from Ireland, her accent was also a dead giveaway. Everyone else in the psychiatric wing called the young nurse Cat, short for Caitlin. He preferred _Kitty-cat_.

Smiling mischievously down at the comic book, he thumbed another page and crossed his ankles languidly.

"Aw Kitty, just tell Orson I'm out of my mind right now. His Immenseness can simply leave a message between the beeps. _Beep_—"

The bolt slid backward in the lock and the door swung open.

"—_beep_." Murdock finished. Glancing up, he fully expected one of Decker's men to walk through. His heart skipped a beat when instead Amy Allen strolled in; wearing a cropped grey suit jacket, white ruffled blouse, and a charcoal colored pencil skirt. A tan purse hung from one shoulder and a folded newspaper was tucked under her left arm. She appeared ready for work. It was still early in the morning; she must have been on her way.

"Nanu, nanu Murdock," Amy said dryly. A warm smile spread across her face, surprising him further.

Slamming the comic shut, Murdock tossed it aside and scrambled to his feet. Climbing off the bed, he wiped a hand on his t-shirt and grabbed for hers.

"Hey Chi—er—Amy," He said, shaking her hand firmly up and down. Trying to hide his excitement at seeing her, he opted to refrain from pet names. They hadn't spoken since the incident in the alley. He didn't know why she'd come to visit him –let alone how she felt about him.

Amy let him pump her arm, trying to keep her purse strap from slipping off her shoulder. "Hello, Murdock." She said, grinning lightly. Despite his genuine affection, she could feel his hesitation. His nervousness was intensifying his open personality, leaving her with tennis elbow.

"New shirt?" Amy asked, trying to switch his attention away from greeting her.

It worked. Murdock dropped her hand to look down at his chest. Printed in white letters, across dark green fabric, was the sentence: '_ask me about my vow of silence_.'

"Uh, no," He mumbled, pausing to reread the phrase. "Fa—," He stopped, realizing Shannon was still standing in the doorway. Looking up he shot a small frown in the nurse's direction, before slipping into a practiced upper crust accent. "I mean, Senator _Temp_ gave it to me for supporting him during his campaign last year. I, ha, stuffed the ballot box for him. We got caught. I pled insanity."

Amy rolled her eyes. Turning around, she faced the pretty nurse, all business. "Excuse me, would it be alright if we go for a walk outside?"

Shannon nodded her head, her wavy red hair sweeping her shoulders. Her girlish figure and long legs weren't quite hidden beneath the standard Barco tuck-waist dress and white stockings she wore. To Amy, the young woman looked old enough for a candy striper not a nurse.

"Of course you can ma'am." Shannon said agreeably, turning her short A's long. "Do you need any assistance in reaching the grounds then?"

"I think we've got it covered Kitty." Murdock nodded kindly, tugging on his cap brim.

"Very well, not long though, Mr. Murdock has group art session at eleven."

"Okay." Amy smiled. The nurse left.

Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Amy turned slowly around unable to resist a tease, "So, group art?"

"Finger paints," Murdock replied. Completely uninterested he brushed off his shirt front and bent to pick up his jacket from the foot of the bed.

Once he had slid the A-2 on, Amy flipped out the newspaper and smacked his arm lightly. "Come on, we have to talk…"

_They needed to talk. They had to talk. She wanted to talk…_

…_so why couldn't he?_

_Murdock played with edge of the lace runner in front of him. A stream of early afternoon sun slipped in through the kitchen window and dappled the surface of the mahogany table top. The excess spread over the white and yellow linoleum floor below, warming the dog lying beside his chair. Outside, despite the sunshine, frost still clung to the cold glass panes._

_Boston. Murdock could hardly believe where he was. It all felt like a strange dream. Him sitting in a kitchen, wearing a full dress uniform, with an arm in a sling and a dog at his feet, while tea water boiled on the stove, when a day before he'd been climbing into the belly of a C-130 and sweating inside his collar. Yet, what made the moment most poignant was the woman standing across from him. A woman he could only think of as the widow of his best friend._

_The tea whistle blew, shattering the silence in the dead house. Claire had been waiting for the boil, leaning against the countertop arms folded. At the sound, she promptly turned off the stove and picked up the kettle to pour two mugs._

_Murdock watched the paper tags on the teabags jump as the hot water hit the filters. He had the over whelming feeling he should be speaking, but he just didn't know what to say. He did know that Claire was waiting for him to make the next move. She'd managed to invite him in after the breakdown on the front porch, and was now offering him tea. It was his turn to reciprocate the gestures. Unfortunately, all he could do was sit useless in the kitchen chair like a green conehead. _

"_Milk no sugar, right?" Claire asked quietly, stirring lazily with a spoon. _

_Murdock glanced up and nodded. "Ye, yeah," He managed, clearing his throat when his words faltered, "How did you know?"_

_Claire shrugged. "Something Daryl wrote once. He said, outside of a chocolate bar, you were annoyingly responsible about anything sugary. Apparently, you made him feel guilty for putting sugar on his Rice Krispies once."_

_Murdock felt a smile tug on his lips at the memory. "And the milk?"_

"_It's not powdered." Claire replied, carrying the mugs over. "So I figured you'd want some. Lucky guess, huh?" She set both cups down and pulled out a chair for herself._

_Murdock drew the mug closer, letting his good hand rest loosely around the outside. He felt the heat radiating through the ceramic. It burned his palm, but he didn't move. Instead he found the pain to be a comfort. At least he could control it. By keeping his hand still he was inflicting the hurt on himself –a change from the last three weeks of his life. _

"_Where are the girls?" Murdock asked, finally finding his voice. Claire blew gently across the surface of her tea, but didn't drink. _

"_They're with my parents right now," She checked her wrist watch. "They should be home soon though."_

"_Oh." Murdock took a tentative sip from his mug. The action gave him a chance to think of what to say next. His brain was completely useless. It irked him. "So how are they doing?" _

_Claire set her mug down and tapped the table with a fingernail. "Fine, I suppose. I don't really think either of them comprehends yet. May perhaps, but Joanie…because of the war she's never even met her father. Daryl was overseas when she was born. How is a child who never understood the word 'daddy', supposed to understand she's lost one?"_

_Murdock ran his hand over his chin, stomach clenching. "I'm so sorry, Claire." He said. And he meant it._

"_It's not your fault H.M.," Claire sighed, looking down at her hands. She failed to catch the frown which crossed his brow at her words. Murdock's throat tightened...wasn't it? _

_Sitting back in the chair, Claire crossed one leg over her knee and smoothed a wrinkle in her jeans with her palm. "I'm thinking of keeping the girls out of school for a while; maybe teach them here at home. At least until all this anti-war business dies down some. There was another protest in the city on New Year's Eve, and the last thing I need, or want, is my daughters being fed some New Left SDS garbage about their father by dissidents. Plus, I'd rather not have the pity of the other mothers to deal with right now. Most of them are worse than the hippies." _

"_Yeah, I can appreciate that." Murdock said his throat catching. He cleared it again, and nodded, trying to keep it together. "How are you doing? Are you coping with…everything?"_

_Brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from her eyes, Claire shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. How does anyone really cope with any of this?" _

_The question was rhetorical, but Murdock wished he knew the answer._

"_You know," Claire continued with a wave of her hand, "Christmas Eve my husband and I were talking long distance from Son Tra, and now," her chin trembled, "and now, three weeks later he's dead and buried, and I'm stuck in a house with our kids, receiving condolences from a bunch of people I barely know. It's surreal." _

"_Yeah, surreal," Murdock mumbled taking another drink. The tea burned all the way down his chest. "Um, how was the funeral?" _

"_It went well." Claire replied still tapping her finger absentmindedly. "Some of his old friends from Hanscom Air Base were there. It was all very brass and polish. I even got a folded flag. The weather was perfect too, for mid-January. I wish you could have been there." She added wistfully. _

_Murdock winced inwardly. "I tried, I really did. You have no idea how many hoops I jumped through to even get this far. I had to call in a marker with an Agent Cheney from the Agency –something I know will come back to bite me."_

"_It's okay, H.M. I know you did your best. Daryl always said you were ace." Claire smiled, but it failed to reach her tired eyes. "I'm surprised it was so difficult. I mean, you are wounded. Aren't you entitled to a recovery leave or something?"_

_Now it was Murdock's turn to shrug lopsidedly. "Not stateside –although not for lack of trying. I did get shot, which is half the work, but my wound isn't permanently debilitating. So instead of shipping me home, they just pinned a purple heart to my chest and said 'have a nice layup in Da Nang for two weeks'. Which isn't the worst thing, they do have nice beaches there…and drinks with little grenade pin umbrellas." _

_This time, Claire's smile broke into a small laugh. Murdock felt better for having heard it and grinned despite himself._

"_A purple heart," Claire reached into her pocket. "I've been carrying Daryl's around for the last week." She pulled the medal free and set it on the table. Murdock glanced down, taking in the heart shaped, purple enamel, rimmed with gold. The profile of George Washington—topped with a red and white coat of arms between two sprigs of green leaves—was familiar to him. Murdock knew, like his medal, that this one also bore the words, 'for military merit', engraved on the reverse side._

"_It's too bad we aren't family. Then they would have let you come." Claire said thoughtfully._

"_I doubt it, but the Red Cross did refuse my hardship request because we weren't related. However, that's not the only reason I was stonewalled." Murdock reached into his dress jacket and fished out a folded envelope. "I learned I've been under observation for the past two months. I guess they didn't want to run the risk of giving me leave stateside, and then having me go AWOL." He handed the envelope to Claire. She took it with interest. "Before I left, HQ gave me these. They're transfer orders; I'm being reassigned to a new unit under a man called John Hannibal Smith." _

_Claire skimmed the typed paper she'd drawn from the envelope. "It says here, that you were selected from five other candidates. What is this, some kind of ultimate Army thing?" _

"_I dunno. It's a Special Forces group. They're all elitists." Murdock snorted. "Daryl would pitch a fit if he knew I was flying for an SF Colonel. In fact I'm not too happy about it either, but I have my orders. C__'est la vie as it were."_

_Nodding sympathetically at his 'such is life' remark, Claire refolded the letter and slipped it into the envelope again. Without a word, she extended it forward. Murdock reached for the packet, only to have it pulled back at the last second. Claire looked him straight in the eye, her expression serious._

"_Whatever you do H.M., please stay safe." She said quietly. _

_Her conviction caught him off guard. For a moment there was silence between them. _

_After a beat, Murdock shook himself free of the thousand and one deaths which had flitted through his mind at her words. "Always," He heard himself whisper, his fingers gently taking the envelope. Claire released it, wrapping her arms about herself protectively. Her long sweater sleeves hid most of her hands from view, but Murdock could still see the fingers of her right hand ticking evenly. _

It must be subconscious anxiety,_ he noted sadly. He knew he only had an inkling of what she must have been going through. His heart hurt with her, and he wanted to make it right. If only he could give her husband back to her. At this thought, Murdock suddenly remembered why he had come._

"_I, uh, brought something for you." He said, tripping on his words. Bending down, he gave the dog a quick pat on the head and picked up the package he arrived with. _

_Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat when he handed her the brown paper bundle. She gingerly took it into her lap._

"_It's some of Daryl's personal effects." Murdock explained. "I found them in our hooch while I was packing my things."_

_Slowly undoing the paper, Claire unveiled Daryl's folded A-2. The tiger leered upward, ferocious, and half covered by several Polaroid snapshots, a letter, and a poker chip. Murdock watched her face brighten._

"_I remember this –his lucky chip!" She exclaimed, holding it up. Balancing the coin-like, red striped, object near her knuckles she rolled it expertly from finger to finger and back again. "I can still do it, can you believe it?"_

_Murdock grinned. "Bravo." _

"_Brava." She replied with an impish smile. Picking up a Polaroid, Claire shook her head. "Oh, I know this. Daryl sent me a similar one of you two. May and Joanie have it taped to their bedroom wall." She turned the picture around. It was one Murdock had seen many times –a photo of Pots and him on a supply run in Da Nang. They'd found a gunship helicopter on the maintenance tarmac and had posed for a take with the new Swinger camera they had borrowed from Stevens._

"_Yeah, I remember that too." He said. _

_At that moment, the doorbell rang. Murdock jumped at the unexpected noise, and at his feet Molly scrambled to gain her paws. Claire quickly checked her watch –she had been in the process of opening the envelope addressed to her._

"_Oh, that must be my parents with the girls –excuse me." Shoving the opened package onto the table top, she stood hastily. Still holding the letter, Claire hurried into the foyer trailing the dog. Murdock watched until she turned a corner out of view. _

_Twisting back around in his chair, he straightened his collar nervously. His heart suddenly rose in his throat as he heard the front door open, and the cacophony voices which followed forced him to stand. Murdock's chest tightened in mild panic. The last thing he had wanted to do was face the children. _

"_In here." Claire's voice floated down the hall nearly drowned out by the scrabble of dog nails and childish squeals._

_For the second time that day, Murdock clamped down on the urge to run. His pulse quickened and he waited, his fingers curling into an anxious fist. _

_May was the first to appear in the kitchen, still wearing her snow boots. She was tall for her age, with long, silk blonde hair and a slight frame. Even as she ran into the room, her step held an overly energetic bounce which spelled trouble on every form. Murdock arched an eyebrow and watched her shed her winter coat, dropping it on the floor. Next off was her knit hat and scarf, both hit the linoleum one after the other. Tearing her gloves free the little girl made a beeline for the refrigerator, leaving a trail of winter wear behind. _

_Half way to her destination, May suddenly halted realizing she was not alone. Her large blue eyes widened at the sight of him, and for a moment Murdock was worried he had frightened her._

"_Hello." He said, bending down to crouch at her level. He hoped it would make him less threatening. _

_May didn't respond. Instead she simply stared at him, pulling on her lower lip with a forefinger. Her fair cheeks were still bright pink from the outdoors and she continued to bounce in place as she observed him inquisitively. Her flannel long sleeve blouse and denim blue jeans, made her look more like a mini grownup then a child. Murdock noticed Daryl's dog tags dangling around her neck. _

"_Hey, I have one of those too." He said, tugging his own ID tags from his buttoned collar. "See?" He held them up for her benefit._

_For a second, May's gaze flitted between the dog tags and his pilot's cap sitting on the table. Then, without a word, she ran straight for him. Murdock braced himself at the last second. He compensated for balance, grunting in surprise as she threw her arms about his neck in a strangling hug._

"_Whoa, Chiquita," He said lightly with a soft chuckle and an involuntary wince. Her tiny body had jarred his healing arm on impact. Patting her back awkwardly, he felt the little girl burry her face against his neck. Her nose was cold. _

Like mother like daughter._ Murdock mused, feeling slightly bewildered and uncomfortable. "Hey now darlin…" He tried to gently pry her free. Her hold only tightened in response._

"_May, I told you to wait for mommy…" Claire swept into the kitchen retrieving discarded clothing. She stopped short upon seeing the midget high embrace. _

_Murdock fumbled, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, she just…" He stood up hastily, taking his stubborn cling-on with him. May wrapped her legs about his waist as he held her, still hugging his neck. _

_Claire smiled and shook her head in amusement. "I told her Uncle H.M. was here, I think she thought I meant another picture." Still smiling, she moved to pull off the little girls damp boots. Murdock turned to allow her better access and looked at the refrigerator door. A collage of photos and several Child's drawings were tacked to the white doors with colorful magnets. Most of the pictures were family related. There was a large majority of Daryl, but some were of him as well. Murdock was surprised by this. He had never been included on a family fridge before._

"_Well that explains it then." He said, his voice strained –more from emotion then May's death grip. Claire patted his shoulder and called to her parents who had now entered the kitchen._

"_Dad, Mom, this is Captain H.M. Murdock. Murdock, this is my mother and father –Mr. and Mrs. Boss."_

_Murdock turned around to face the doorway, his gaze settling on the man and the woman standing there. They looked to be mid fifties, both seemed kind. The elder gentleman, Mr. Boss, was dressed in an argyle vest and carrying his three year old granddaughter in the crook of an arm._

"_Call me Walter." Mr. Boss said, coming forward with a wide smile his peppered mustache twitching. He extended a free hand and then stopped, laughing, when he realized Murdock was unable to reciprocate. "It's nice to finally meet you son. Daryl's written a lot about you." _

"_Yes, it's nice to meet you too sir." Murdock replied, oddly overwhelmed by all the familiarity. Mrs. Boss smiled and nodded a hello, moving to set the grocery bags she carried on the kitchen table. The dog trotted after her with a jingle of tags. Murdock answered with a tip of his head. All of a sudden the room felt much smaller and he was beginning to grow warm under the collar._

_May straightened in his arm, lifting her head up. Joanie spotted them and wiggled in her grandfather's arms, clapping her chubby hands together. Reaching out toward Murdock, she loosed a playful squeal._

"_Daddy!"_

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, Thanks for readingreviewing! Again, sorry for the update delay. **


	13. Back From The Past

**Back From The Past**

A warm breeze ruffled the tree leaves above the picnic table where Murdock and Amy sat. Beneath their feet, the green grass was speckled with an array of shadows and morning sunshine. Only a hedge of bushes lining the gravel path provided any privacy from the rest of the hospital grounds. Other patients strolled by at random. Most were attached to orderlies dressed in white, but a few of the more lucid residents had been allowed to roam freely.

All in all it was turning out to be a pleasant day.

Amy shared a bench with Murdock, quietly listening as he talked. She had asked him to finish the story of his Dustoff days and Daryl White. At first he had refused her, insisting on apologizing for his behavior in the alley instead.

"I'm sorry for how I acted." He had said to her, his eyes deeply troubled.

"It's alright, Murdock. I understand." She had replied, giving him a smile to assure him she hadn't been adversely affected.

He had shaken his head, as he guided her toward the picnic table. "No, it's not alright. I should never have spoken to you in that way. You're my friend, and I certainly should never have hurt you. It was wrong. No matter how bad things get, lashing out at your friends is never acceptable. I was trying to prove I could handle the situation, but by yelling at you I did the exact opposite. I really am sorry."

When they had taken their seats, she patted his arm. "It's in the past Murdock, let's move on. I forgive you. Please, tell me how you got your jacket."

Seemingly satisfied, Murdock then proceeded to pick up where he had left off. Now, half an hour later, he had managed to paint her an excruciatingly real picture of the death of a friend. If there was one thing she had gained from his story, it was a greater respect for the bond the A-Team shared. Watching all four men in action, it was easy to forget what might happen to the rest if one of them was killed.

Amy observed Murdock as he explained his first meeting with Claire White and the children. The moment the word 'daddy' left his lips he halted, swallowing hard. His eyes had been misty since the start of his storytelling, but presently Amy swore she saw tears brimming.

"I'm sorry." Murdock apologized again, taking a beat. He ran a hand over his chin, trying to gain a hold on his emotions. "It's just, you're the first person I…I ever told this too. I never…" he faded off, turning his head away to hide his face.

A tide of compassion filled Amy. She knew it was taking a lot for him to let her witness his struggle.

"It's okay." She whispered, willing to let him take it slow.

In the distance a car pulled through the VA gates, its tires squelching on the gravel strewn tarmac.

Waiting for him to continue, Amy couldn't help but wonder why he had decided to confide in her. It had taken her so long to integrate herself into the team; she sometimes wondered if they even cared she was there? Perhaps that was why Murdock had chosen to talk to her. She wasn't one of the guys, she was neutral. Despite herself, Amy smiled. Thanks to Murdock, she now knew her presence did matter –even if just to him.

After another quiet minute, she leaned forward and touched his hand. The pilot didn't move. He seemed to be detaching himself from the conversation. She could tell his mind was wandering by his fascination with watching the visitors climbing out of the newly parked car.

"Hey," Amy said, giving his palm an encouraging squeeze. At the pressure Murdock turned back around, his hollow gaze finding hers. They both knew he needed to finish what he had started. No matter how hard. Burying it again would only do more damage. Sitting beside him, she was fully prepared to give all the support he needed.

"Claire gave you the jacket, didn't she?" Amy coaxed gently, forcing him to return to the memories. Murdock's mouth twitched into an almost-smile. Something in his eyes changed.

"They both did," He replied, his voice husky…

"_Daddy!"_

_The moment the word left Joanie's lips, hush fell over the room. Murdock suddenly felt as if he'd stalled out at five hundred knots in an F-4 Phantom. His stomach dropped to the soles of his shoes and his mind reeled. In that instant, he experienced every sensation of spinning into a free falling nose dive. His vision blurred. His heart raced. To make matters worse, everyone appeared too stunned to register. _

_After a pause, Claire looked up from the letter she'd been reading. The delayed gravity of what had happened hit her like a ton of bricks._

"_What?" She gaped, her eyes wide. _

"_Joanie—" Walter gasped._

"_I have to go." Murdock said. His heartbeat pulsed unsteadily. It was getting harder to breathe. He needed to get out. "Uh, I'm sorry, excuse me I...I have to go." He repeated distractedly, shakily handing May off to her bewildered mother._

_Claire secured the pass –still trying to recover. "H.M. what, what are you doing?" _

"_I just remembered I, uh, need to be somewhere." Murdock replied lamely. Grabbing his hat off the table he put it on, nearly tripping over the dog in his haste._

"_Murdock, wait—" Claire tried again. May sat on her hip, clutching her sweater. _

"_Thanks for the tea and your time." He said, backing away from them. Bumping into Walter, he sidestepped into Mrs. Boss and pulled away, unnerved, with a mumbled, "Nice meeting you sirs...ma'am…sir, ma'am..." _

_Flustered, Murdock wheeled about and made for the doorway. His brain refused to think any further than imminent escape. Muttering incoherent apologies, he made the hallway and then ducked into the foyer. Intent on leaving the kitchen far behind, he managed to open the front door –despite the row of snow boots blocking the hinges. _

_The cold air struck his heated face, bringing a measure of relief. Once he was outside, Murdock felt free. On the porch he gained the stairs, a wave of anger rushed through his raw nerves. Never before had he been so trapped –so out of place. He kicked at a fallen icicle in his path, sending it skittering along the flagstone walkway. _

It should never have been me!_ He thought resentfully. _It should never have been me in that house. It should have always been Daryl!

_For the first time in his life, he felt guilty for living. Adding salt to the wound, he also felt guilty for leaving. Deep down he knew running out hadn't been the answer. He should have stayed –even if just for the children's sake. But when he couldn't control his emotions, the sentiment 'cowboy up' simply wasn't an option. If he could only throw-up, then perhaps the sickening weight in his gut would recede._

_Under a pale blue sky, Murdock walked briskly down the front yard. Passing the lone snowman in the pilots scarf, he avoided looking into its black rock eyes. All the sadness and frustration that had been bottled up inside him for weeks was beginning to surface. He couldn't stop it. Wiping at his running nose, Murdock tried to tell himself it was a combination of tea and cold air, but the hot tears welling in his eyes made him a liar. _

_Reaching the gate, he yanked it forcefully open and stepped out onto the neighborhood sidewalk. He didn't know where he was going, he just needed to walk. Half way to the cul-de-sac at the end of the street, Murdock heard the sharp 'bang' of a screen door closing. _

"_Murdock! Wait!" Claire's voice carried after him._

_He ignored her, too ashamed to turn around. _

"_Darn it! Do not make me chase you!" Claire ordered. Her running footsteps grew closer; she wasn't going to let him escape so easily._

_Realizing Claire would probably follow him to the airport given the chance, he decided to stop. Sighing in agitation, Murdock gritted his teeth and slowed his pace to a gradual halt. Drawing a steadying breath, he quickly swept his jacket sleeve over his face to hide his tears. Once the evidence was gone, he squared his shoulders and turned around. Claire met him there, awkwardly slipping on her winter coat. Her cheeks had already begun to grow pink from running in the cold. In the crook of her right arm was Daryl's A-2 and crumpled in her hand was the letter._

"_H.M., Joanie didn't know any better." Claire said, "It's not your fault."_

"_Isn't it?" Murdock snapped bitterly. For weeks, he'd been unable to talk, but now the restraints were off. He couldn't keep the words inside any longer. "I watched him die—"_

"_He died in surgery—"_

"_He was dead when he got there!" Murdock cussed under his breath. "They may have tried to save what was __**left**__ of him, sure, but they couldn't. Why? Because what was Daryl, died on that chopper eight hundred feet above Viet Cong territory. And I held his hand while he did it."_

_Claire shook her head, refusing to agree. He was hurting her, he could tell, but it didn't slow him down. "I felt him die. But I couldn't stop it. Every night I dream about it; the heat, the fuel, the smell of his blood –his blood, Claire. No matter how hard I try, I can't wash it off!"_

_Thrusting out his good hand, he held it palm up for her to see. Had he actually looked, he would have seen what she saw: nothing. But in his head it was there –a faded stain so ingrained in the grooves of his skin, that no amount of scrubbing could remove it. To him it was real and he could see it._

"_And this," Murdock touched his wounded shoulder. "I was flying next to him when he was shot. It could have easily been me instead of him. He had you and the kids; I have nothing, no one, zilch. Hell, it should have been me!" He shouted his voice hoarse._

"_Yes!" Claire shouted back, nearly stamping her foot. Her outburst took him by surprise. "Yes," she repeated, "It could have been you—"_

_Murdock opened his mouth to agree._

"–_but it wasn't." She stopped him. "It's not your fault he's dead.__ C__'est la vie, remember?"_

_Setting his jaw stubbornly, Murdock wasn't ready to give in. "Aren't you the least bit angry?" He asked, genuinely mystified by her reserved behavior. "He was your husband for crying out loud!"_

"_Of course I'm angry!" Claire exclaimed, almost laughing at the absurdity of the question. "I am angry. I am so angry! But what's the point? If I'm angry, it's only because I feel sorry for myself. Sorry, because I feel cheated out of the time I could have spent with my husband. Time our children could have had with their father. But being angry at God, or Daryl, or the war is useless. I agreed with his decision to volunteer for Vietnam –I may have not liked it, but I respected it. He felt it was his duty to go and I wasn't going to stop him. And all of us, including you, knew the risks involved when serving our country. They don't call it the 'ultimate sacrifice' for nothing Murdock. It's pointless to blame anyone, especially yourself." _

"_But I was there." Murdock stressed, still struggling to let go._

"_Yes, you were." Claire said calmly. "I can't begin to imagine what that must have been like, but at least you were there. I wasn't. My husband died, and I never even got to say goodbye. If I'm angry so be it, but if you are, well, unless you really wanted to die Murdock, I'm guessing you're angry because deep down, truthfully, you are relieved it wasn't you." _

_Her words were hard, but nonjudgmental. For a moment he was stunned. The implication of what she had said was difficult to digest, yet, even if it was partially true, it was still overshadowed by the giant hole in his heart where his best friend had once been. Yes, he hadn't wanted to die, but no, that was not why he was angry. _

"_Your family—me being here is not right." Murdock said, helplessly frustrated and confused. "I should never have come to see you. I've only made it worse for them."_

_Claire sighed, "No, H.M. Do you remember when I said 'it's too bad we aren't family?"_

_He nodded._

"_Well, that wasn't true. You __are family." _

_Murdock shifted his weight uncomfortably, "We only just met today—" _

"_So?" Claire said simply. "My husband knew you for a year, and through him we got to know you too. He thought of you as more than a friend Murdock. Daryl had no siblings. His mother died when he was born and he was raised by his father into his teens. Then his dad died as well. You understood him. I know he thought of you as the brother he never had."_

"_I didn't know any of that." Murdock said, his brow furrowing lightly. "But then again, I didn't ask either."_

"_Daryl was never big on talking about anything that concerned him or his life. He usually kept everything bottled up inside. Sometimes, when he was upset, he wouldn't talk at all. I always thought he would eventually explode." Claire replied wryly. "But, if he were here now, I think we both know what he would say…" _

_Murdock shot her a diffident look. She arched her eyebrow, waiting for him to finish her sentence. He knew the answer, but the part of him which was still burdened and in pain refused to play along. Claire continued to egg him silently on, her pursed lips slipping into a smile. His mouth twitched in response, not wanting to return the gesture. _

_Finally he broke, unable to resist her wordless prodding. "I reckon he would say: 'stop complaining.'" Murdock exhaled reluctantly. His stubborn expression melted into a half embarrassed grin. "I've heard that plenty of times." _

"_Yes, me too," Claire agreed, laughingly. Despite her smile, Murdock caught her eyes glistening. The sight of it prompted him to speak._

"_You are wrong about one thing though." He said._

"_What's that?" She asked._

"_Pots, Daryl, did talk about himself. You, and the girls, were a part of him and he never stopped talking about you three. The last thing he asked was for me to tell you how much he loved you –all of you." _

"_Even the dog?" Claire joked tearfully._

"_Especially the dog," Murdock said, winking reassuringly._

_Claire nodded, satisfied yet sniffing. "Yeah, well, he had something to say about you too ya know."_

_Murdock's brow lifted. "Oh, really?" He asked, waiting for the punch line._

_Instead, Claire cleared her throat and held up the letter she'd been carrying. Finding her place, she read from the crinkled paper, "If it is at all possible, please give my Da Nang to Cap'n Howlin' Mad—" _

_Murdock's head shot up in surprise, his eyes widening. Out of all the things he had expected to hear, this was not one of them. He was so shocked, he nearly missed what came next as Claire continued on._

"_Since I am no longer around to protect his scrawny backside, he's gonna need it. Come to think of it, I think he always needed that jacket more than I ever did. If he refuses to accept it tell him; one day he'll be where I am, and then we'll have an eternity to settle it like men. Trust me; in a fight…we both know who'd win."_

_In spite of the brusque teasing, Murdock knew how significant it was to be entrusted with Daryl's jacket. The act bordered on an honor. _

"_He's right, you should have it." Claire said extending the A-2 between them. Murdock hesitated, unsure._

"_It's what he wanted." She said gently, urging him to claim it._

_Reaching out tentatively, Murdock touched the leather. Taking the jacket from her, he held it carefully in his hand feeling the weight. _

_Once he'd accepted, Claire went back to the letter, "And make sure to tell him about the tiger. If he's going to wear it, he should know." _

_Murdock studied the painted beast, "He never did tell me that." _

"_Well I can," Claire folded the page, and clutched her coat closed for warmth, "Daryl's father was a Vet –a pilot from World War II. He flew with the 1__st__ American Volunteer Group under Chennault to be exact. The AVG was nicknamed—" _

"_The Flying Tigers," Murdock finished, genuinely impressed._

"_Yup, and they are why Daryl wanted to be a pilot." Claire explained. "He learned to fly everything from choppers to jet planes because he wanted to live up to his father's legacy."_

"_He was good at it too." Murdock said thoughtfully, tucking the jacket under his arm. "He wanted to wear the tiger, so it would remind him to be the best he could be, didn't he? The luck was himself, wasn't it?"_

_Claire blinked, "That's right. How did you know?"_

"_Because," He nodded his head, "it's like you said, I guess I really did understand him…"_

"I promised her I'd take care of the jacket," Murdock said, drawing back from the past. "And it's never left me since."

Beside him, Amy studied the ground. Her back to the table, she sat forward, her forearms resting on her knees. She hadn't moved since he had begun talking again.

The breeze picked up again, swaying the leaves above them with a distinct rustle. Amy lifted a hand and ran it through her short hair, deep in thought. Murdock sat next to her, waiting. Slipping her a side glance, he could tell she was still trying to process everything she'd been told. Her smooth brow was creased in concentration. Watching her face, he was happy with his decision to leave out any details regarding _Hoa Lo_.

After a pause he continued, if only to fill the silence, "This jacket is a part of me now, and sometimes it's the only piece of myself I can trust to be real."

At this, Amy looked up curiously, "What do you mean?"

In answer, Murdock swung his feet over the bench and slid his legs under the table. Setting his elbows on the wooden top, he pointed toward the white walls of the VA. Amy adjusted her position as well, her eyes following his gesture toward the hospital towering above the grounds.

"If you spend enough time around people who tell you you're crazy on a daily basis, you start to question if, maybe, you really are," Murdock explained. "Then, you start to wonder if perhaps this entire life you think you're living is only a delusion. Wearing this," he patted his sleeve, "keeps me grounded. I can't explain why, or how, but it just does. Daryl was my link to reality in Nam, and I guess you can say he still is."

"So, you do think about him then?" Amy asked quietly.

"Yeah," Murdock replied. "I remember him once and awhile, but I blocked out the day he died a long time ago. Yesterday was the first time I thought about that in almost twelve years. At first it felt okay to revisit it, but then Faceman was in trouble and…" He stopped.

"And it wasn't just a memory anymore." Amy finished for him. "It was the past in the present, right?"

"Let's just say," Murdock frowned, suddenly evasive, "If it had happened again, I don't know what I would have done."

By the graveness of his tone, she knew she was pushing an issue he didn't wish to pursue. Amy backed off, respecting his boundaries. She had already dug up old wounds, albeit by accident, which luckily he had managed to deal with openly. The last thing she wanted was to upset him again.

"Thanks." Amy said, "Thanks for telling me."

He laughed. "Trust me; I can hardly believe I did. Those days were some of the hardest I've ever been through in my life. It was the second time I lost a family."

"So, you never saw Claire and the kids after that?" She asked, setting her purse on the table in front of her.

Murdock ran his hand over his chin, "Nope. After I went back to Nam, I joined the A-Team. It was easier to detach –we never even said goodbye. Claire and I exchanged several letters, but when our missions in Cambodia started I stopped. It's hard getting mail when no one knows where you are."

Amy nodded understandingly. "And you never tried to find them after you were discharged?"

"No." He said definitively, knotting his fingers together. "Between the court-martial and the sanity hearing it didn't seem like a good idea."

"And now?"

"Fugitives aside, I live in a psychiatric hospital. I doubt I'm someone anyone would want to reunite with. Besides, it's been years. I wouldn't even know where to start."

Opening her purse, Amy withdrew a piece of paper she had been saving for this moment. Poking Murdock's arm with a forefinger to get his attention, she handed him the slip.

"Here."

"What's this?" He asked, checking both sides of the paper.

"That is Claire White's home phone number." Amy answered, snapping her purse closed again.

Murdock's brow shot up in surprise. He read the seven digits written on the slip, "What, how?"

"After you guys dropped me off at the newspaper yesterday, I did some digging. I was curious, so I tracked her down." Amy explained. "According to records, Claire never remarried. She and her two daughters are currently residing in Palm Beach, Florida. Her eldest daughter, May, is now nineteen. And get this; she has recently joined the National Guard."

Nudging Murdock's side with an elbow, it took Amy a second to realize he wasn't responding.

"I looked into Joanie, too." She continued, hoping to draw him out. "She has just turned sixteen, and aside from straight A's in school, she also owns a blue '67 Mustang convertible which she worked all summer to buy from her next door neighbor."

Again, nothing.

"Murdock, calm down. You're way too excited." Amy said dryly, bumping him playfully with a shoulder.

Ignoring her efforts he turned the paper over twice, distressed, "What am I supposed to do with this?" He asked, treating the slip like a foreign object.

Sighing, Amy rolled her eyes. "You're supposed to call her Murdock." She said flatly.

He shook his head, "Uh-huh, no, I can't."

"Yes, you can." She countered, "Yesterday, you didn't know if you could talk about Daryl, and yet today you managed to tell me. Despite what others may think, I know you're just fine." Reaching out she tweaked his cap brim good naturedly. "You are so special Murdock, and by far one of the most inspiring people I have ever met. To hear what you've gone through, I know you'll survive a phone call."

"Wanna bet." He growled, but then shot her a toothy grin. "Thanks." He added.

"For what?" Amy asked.

"For just…listening," He said softly, his gaze bright and clear for the first time in a long while.

Scooting closer, she impulsively leaned over to give him a hug. Whether it was because of his big brown eyes or bashful smile, Amy didn't know. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she gave him an encouraging squeeze. Murdock smiled against her shoulder, his own arms encircling her waist. He drew her in, welcoming the impromptu embrace.

"Anytime," Amy whispered in his ear before withdrawing from the hug. He dropped his hands only to have her catch one in both of hers. Looking him straight in the eyes, she shook his hand gently. "And don't be worried about who you are. VA or no VA, it won't matter to Claire. From what you've told me about her, I don't think you're giving her—or yourself—enough credit."

Murdock regarded her with a measure of admiration, "Ah, Chiquita. Just when did you get so smart?"

"I have no idea," Amy feigned innocence, and then smiled. "It must be from hanging out with the A-Team."

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: First, I'd like to thank everyone who left reviews. I really appreciate everything that was said, and a big thanks for sticking with me on this! As an added bonus, I'd like to share a song I recently found that, I feel, fits uncannily well for the Murdock in this story. It's called 'Breaking Inside' by Shinedown. <strong>


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